


Wayward Chronicles

by CapnTytePantz



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Impregnation, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 73,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnTytePantz/pseuds/CapnTytePantz
Summary: "Through the mists of time and across worlds, he wanders, a wayward barbarian, a hulking warrior, our war chieftain, alone as a god. Hearken, young whelp and aged crone, brash warrior and bold shield-breaker of the Forge! Hear the chronicles of Zorubaash Bloodfist, exile of his clan and chieftain to a lost people. Our lord was broken upon the stone, but the Forge shall remake him. The song of steel and fire burns in his heart and rings in his ears. He is returning, as sure as the hammer forms the steel, as firmly as clay tempers the spine, as true as stone sharpens the blade. Hear the song of your people and make ready for the War Chief's return, oh Forgeborn! Blood and Honor! Fire and Steel! For the FORGE!" - Forgeborn SkaaldFrom the Author: This is a collection of short in-between stories I drafted during lulls in our D&D campaign. At some point, I hope to flesh them out, into a full, contiguous story. For now, I would appreciate any feedback to help my writing. Thank you.





	1. Wandering and Waking

Zorubaash wandered from Wrona's cart, her words and warnings weighing heavily upon him. Dark things were growing and moving, boldly, in the shadows. He had been gone for too long. Much more was lost in that dungeon than he'd originally thought. Now he was free, flung into a world of darker shadows than those that Zanarick had cast. He would need to ponder, form a new purpose, and act. "He who does not act loses the initiative" was what Tharkum had taught him in their training. Zorubaash was tired of losing. He had wandered this world and lost many things, but now he had found something worth the fight. He had steeled himself in the dungeon, set to his purpose, and now he would renew that purpose and set to the task of achieving his goals...of conquering the gathering darkness and forging his own destiny.

Before he knew it, Zorubaash found himself outside the Forgeborn camp, standing beside his steam hut. Had they moved it so he would return to them? He pondered the trophies they had hung in his room. Good kills, all of them, and worthy glories to adorn his halls. Was it a compulsory tithe from his new people, or was there some sincerity behind it? He had to know. He must understand the heart of his people, if he was to lead them into this uncertain future. He must rekindle their flame. He must forge them, anew. His hands ran across the skins of the hut, absentmindedly, as he pondered these things. He could feel the spirits stirring. The Bear called to him, but not for tonight. It would need to wait one more day. There were pressing matters all around him, and he had resolved to forge ahead. Choosing the path laid before him, he turned from the hut and entered the camp.

He picked his way through the camp, soaking in the sights, smells, and sounds. He sought to know more about these wanderers who now called him "Chief". Guards noticed his passing but did not move to intercept him. He was like a wolf, examining his pack. Others were settling into their tents for the night. Occasionally, one would take note of him and nod in deference. He would return their gazes, unsure of what they were seeking. Gone were the children, trying to count coup on him. Their laughter and awestruck whispers were now replaced with the occasional, soft scolding or lullaby from their parents. How misunderstood, his people. How unlike the stories of terrifying monsters told within walled cities. Fierce they were, in battle. Passionate they were, in mating. Harsh they were, instructing their whelps. Tender they were, in loving their kin. What a glorious fire did burn within them!

Hagurth called Zorubaash from his reverie, as she stood at his side. He cocked his head, quizzically, but there was no malice in his gaze. "You seemed lost, staring across the camp. I wondered if you had forgotten where Mazoga's tent was." He furrowed his brow for a moment, pondering. Should he confide in such a young warrior? He supposed he could. She had found him, first, and had led him to this path amongst the Forgeborn. She had ever been at his side, during the quest to lay Lurog's Shame to rest and reclaim their pride. She had stood for him when he claimed his place as chief. She devoured his stories, as if they were life-giving meat. "Would it surprise you to know that I may be lost?"

She paused for a moment, startled. "The chieftain...lost? How can one be lost in the midst of his own people?!" He was shocked! In an instant, this young warrior had put the finger exactly upon the thing he had been searching for, and he laughed. At first, only his shoulders shook, in a low chuckle, but soon it erupted into a joyous roar. "YES! You speak truly and justly, Hagurth Forgeborn! What chief could ever be so, amongst his own people?!" At this, she seemed distressed. Whether out of confusion or shock, he did not know, nor did he particularly care at that moment. Still, he calmed himself, lowered his voice and his gaze towards her. "I thank you. You have shown me a great kindness, this night. May the Bear always walk beside you. I must go meet with my Forgemaster. We have much to discuss, about our people." He turned and left Hagurth standing in her confusion. Maybe the chief really didn't know anything, but he was done with being lost.

He headed for Mazoga's tent, straight and true, full of determination. He would know his people and lead them to glory, but first he needed to crack a glacier. The warriors barely realized who he was, before he strode past them, waving off their greetings. His resolve was set, and nothing would...Well that wasn't what he was expecting. Mazoga stood in the midst of the tent, bare, in the process of washing the soot and ash from a hard day's work from her lithe frame. Thousands of neatly arranged scars covered almost every inch of her green skin. She did not show any modesty before her chief. A thought then struck Zorubaash that perhaps he should have announced his presence before entering. "No!" he thought. Too many years amongst these demure races of man had taught him this modesty. Here stood a bastion of the savagery he had walked away from, all those years ago. She did not have such airs of propriety. She did not have time for them. They were a waste in savage times. It was her duty to be available, at all times, for her chief. Why should she feel something so...human, as modesty and decency?

He simply stared, soaking in the image of his people's priestess before him. White hairs peppered her dark brown locks, which were usually tied back in a neat braid and folded up, so as to keep it out of her way, while she worked in the forge. It was simple, yet elegant, full of utility and purpose. Now, it was undone and flowed over her shoulders, as she wiped her arms and neck. He longed to run his fingers through her glorious mane or pull it tight, in their mating. His eyes then cast their gaze upon her verdant skin, glistening in the moonlight from the damp cloth she had used to wash herself. It was normally muted by ash and soot from the forge, but now it seemed to radiate with vigor. She was aged and weathered, but her frame was sturdy and her slender back unbent by the years. Her muscles were well defined from years at the forge, robust yet delicate. He remembered how she had hefted Lurog's Pride, when Zorubaash had returned it to them. He was confident that she could handle herself well against any of the warriors in the camp, though none would ever raise a hand against her. His eyes rested upon her toned buttocks and elegant legs. There were slight dimples, in the small of her back, and desire swelled within him, but he forced it down, at least until he had enjoyed the sights a little more. He then noticed that there were no cuts on her backside. The front and sides of her legs, arms, and torso, yes, even the tops of her shoulders and along the sides of her neck, but not there nor along her back. It was as if every cut was in some place she could reach, herself. He also noted that the cuts stopped at her knees and did not continue down towards her feet.

"Will my Chief be taking me, tonight?" she asked, in a calm and collected manner, without looking at him. There it was! That damnable passivity. Even Nellothien, in her demure, elven propriety at least had passion. She at least struck him, when he slighted her. She at least had fire. She at least provided Zorubaash with a hunt. This was like caged game, waiting for slaughter, and it enraged him. He drew the blade and drove it into the ground and began to remove his gear, until only his breeches and boots remained. His furious gaze never left her placid face. "What do you treasure, Forgemaster?" he growled. "What does the heart of my people desire most?"

The Forgemaster winced at the improper treatment of her Grandmother's work. She walked over to it, picking up a dry pelt. She pulled the blade from the dirt and carefully began to clean it. With a skill that came from years at the anvil, she checked the edges of the blade for chips, cracks, and to see if it had warped. "My chief would be wise to take better care of his clan," she said as she worked. Satisfied the blade was not damaged she wrapped it in the pelt and set it near the door. Then, she cast her gaze at the chief. "My only treasures are my hands," she said blankly, showing him calloused hands covered in burn marks. "They are what forge the spirit of my people into the blades you take into battle."

She faced him, in her immutable splendor, a solitary stone in the stream. Her neck was long and slender, reminding him of his deceased elven lover. Where Nellothein's had been deep hues of blue, with elegant streaks of purple, Mazoga's was a simple green, covered in neatly arranged cuts along the sides. Her ears carried few adornments, so as not to distract her in the forge or get caught in her work. Her hair was now running down her back, past her buttocks. He looked full in her face, and took in the calm features. She had high and elegant cheekbones, with only a few cuts along them on each side. Her nose was straight and unbent or broken, and her nostrils barely twitched, as she breathed, steadily. Her piercing, brown eyes rested beneath elegant, ebony eyebrows. Her brow was not heavy, like other orcs, and carried few if any lines. He noticed that she did not have cracks at the edges of her almond shaped eyes, as those who laughed often would. He wondered if there had been any joy in her life, since the clan had been outcast in their shame. His eyes trailed down to her lips, like canopy leaves, resting gently against her diminutive, ivory tusks. He longed to draw her close and part those lips with his own and lock their tusks in passionate embrace, but it was as if a great, invisible wall stood between them, and prevented his impulses. Below those verdant petals, lay the mark of their former shame. An orange, inverted triangle hung below her lower lip and trailed to her rigid chin, symbolizing the treachery that had ended Lurog's mad reign.

How he longed to cup his hands about her face, framing her countenance, as he admired her, but the wall prevented him, again. Below her chin flowed that elegant neck, braced by sturdy musculature, and met the gentle curves of her collar bones. He did not dare ogle her supple breasts or let his gaze travel any further, as he feared his senses would fly from him, and he would shatter the wall between them, ravishing her there on the tent floor. He felt it would be a betrayal to take her in this manner. There was still much they needed to understand about one another. To take her now would be like taking a whore, and he longed to treat her in the manner her station and demeanor demanded. He did not wish to dishonor her or his people. He longed to be the strength upon which they stood. He desired to embrace them completely, before he embraced her. With these thoughts, he simply returned his gaze to the deep pools of her eyes, longingly.

For a moment, her calm nature broke his smoldering fury. Here stood something, unchanging, almost eternal. It reminded him of the dracolich, Zanarick, and his rage erupted. He gripped her by the waist and flung her upon the bed, pinning her shoulders to the skins with one massive hand. "Then teach me, Forgemaster!" he implored. "Teach me to treasure them as you do. I am a wanderer. I have known only the ways of the mountain clans and the simpering of these lowland curs. The Bear calls to me, and I follow. He led me to you, and I took this clan as a mark of victory." He lessened his grip and removed his hand from her shoulders. His own shoulders slumped and he looked away from her, ashamed. "I was a fool to think I was a proper chieftain for your people…Then I was taken to the dungeon." He stood, staring into nothing, lost in those memories. "For twelve days, I clawed my way out of that dark place, carving a bloody path through my enemies and facing horrors beyond my ken. There was no day or night. It was like an eternity of scraping for some tiny shred of relief. The Bear could not guide me, and the Warden sat on his horde, mocking me. I only had two desires then: freedom and the blade." He turned to look upon Lurog's Pride, laying in the wrapping, where she had placed it. "I would be free and carry the blade, or I would perish." He turned back to her, holding out his own hands and examining their callouses. "I fought and won, forging my will into hands worthy of holding the blade, again. I returned triumphant, and still you are far from me!" He let his hands fall to his sides and stood, almost defiantly. "For better or worse, I have returned, and I will not forsake the Forgeborn. I will not forsake my people, so teach me, Mazoga...or kill me."

He hung his head and waited for something. He knew not what to expect, and nothing came. There was only silence. He was wrong, and he knew it. His pride was strong, however. He did not seek to apologize, because he was full of that pride and self-righteous anger. He should have realized then who deserved his anger most, but his pride was too strong. They didn't speak. Neither knew what to say to the other. One was bound by tradition, the other by ignorance. He dismissed her to bed and readied his gear, checking the bindings and buckles. He pulled out the leather balm Tharkum had taught him to make and began applying it over the dried surfaces, so as to prevent chapping and cracking. He examined the bones, teeth, and claws, marking them with sealing wax mixed with charcoal. Each nick and scratch was a mark of a job well done. The bodies of his fallen enemies guarded his life, and he thanked their passing, silently. Eyes watched him for a time, but he did not think to care. He almost welcomed it. The quiet nights they had experienced since returning almost unsettled him as much as the dungeon had. It wasn't natural to have nothing watch him as he worked and prepared.

Next, he set to his axe, checking it as he had seen Tharkum check his weapons. Pulling the whet stone from his pack, he honed the blade. He glanced at the sword, lying in reverence at the door, and wondered what sin he might have committed by treating it like his people did, as a weapon for battle. For his people, weapons were tools, but the body was the real weapon. Without a strong body and sharp mind, the wastes of the North would devour you. The beasts would rend you and the winds strip the flesh from your bones. The finest tools in all the land would not save you from this fate. Only you and your clever mind could find shelter, build a fire, hunt food, and outsmart the ravaging beasts. In this land, however, it seemed that tools were as dear as your own flesh and blood and should be wielded with care.

He snorted, softly, and returned to the axe, working the leather wrappings with balm and removing any tarnish from the metal adornments. With this axe, he broke the bones of Zanarick and reclaimed the blade. Next he moved to Brak's hammer. He marveled at it for a moment, as memories flooded back to him. How many had he slain with this mighty hammer, forged by his brother? How many times had it served him so well? He wiped every corner and polished away the tarnish of time. As he worked, he felt the heart of his brother. Had he wronged him by sending the Forgeborn here? He must make things right between them. As kin and chieftain, he owed that much to all of them.

Then to his javelins, he checked their tips and honed their edges. He had missed these, his first hunting tools. Straight and true did the fly from his hands, and many beasts have been felled by their sure strikes. He checked the newest addition, a mighty weapon that wielded the power of the skies. It almost crackled with untapped energy, as he ran his fingers across it. Not a scratch was found on its jagged points. Unlike his other javelins, this one imitated the lightning, with sharp and crackling edges, a perfect pictograph of a storm's fury. He returned it to the quiver with the others, but kept one javelin by his side. He set the axe by his right hand, ready for battle at a moment's notice.

He sat there, with his back against Mazoga's bed, pondering. His watch was not over, and he would remain faithful to his duties. He drew the ceremonial blade from its sheath at the small of his back and checked the teeth and bone. He applied the wax, as he issued silent prayers to the spirits. He wiped and polished it, remembering his people and the words of their shaman. "Follow the Bear," he had told Zorubaash, and then sent him out into the world. For years and through many hardships he had followed, but he never returned to the mountains of his people. Now the Bear had led him to these lost people, in their shame, and he had claimed them…or had they claimed him?

He looked to the blade, in its wrappings, and sheathed his own, with a passing prayer. He rose and crossed the room, as Mazoga slept, peacefully. He knelt before the blade and undid the wrapped hide. He knelt there and marveled at it. Truly, Lurog's Pride had been made by a master and carried a great legacy. Now, that legacy was his, and he must carry it and make it his own, until death claimed him. He set his resolve as he had in that dungeon. He would never depart from the blade nor forsake it. He would rend the gods themselves to retrieve it, for his people. He wrapped it again, picking it up with reverence, and returned to his post at Mazoga's bed. He sat with his knees upright, so as to kick away any attackers and spring to action. He laid the blade, in its wrapping, within the crook of his lap. He would defend his people's pride and the heart of the forge, behind him. He gripped the axe and javelin, while crossing his arms over his knees. Soon his watch would be over, and he could sleep, but years of travel and adventure had taught him to be always ready. He knew no one was coming to relieve him, but still he would keep his watch, until sleep at last claimed his consciousness and his head slumped forward, onto his arms and against his weapons…

His dreams were disturbing, though he did not wake. Faces of those he had failed to save and those still in need flew through his mind. Sinister laughter clawed at the edges of his restlessness. Visions of dark rituals and rivers of blood washed over him, and he saw a blasted landscape in flames. An acrid stench filled his lungs, and dark figures rose from the wastes, lumbering towards him. He was naked and unarmed before them, but he would not submit to terror. He shouted taunts and jeers, but no sound came from his mouth. Then he heard it, a steady rhythm above the onrushing flood, like steel upon steel. It wasn't the clash of battle, but the steady din of a forge. Each time the hammer struck, he felt warmth return to him. [ting] It was getting hotter. [ting] His skin was beginning to steam. [ting] The steam had turned to smoke, as his skin began to burn away. [TING] Fire erupted from under his skin, and he was engulfed in an inferno.

Zorubaash awoke with a gasp, gulping cool morning air into his lungs. He looked around, startled, and found that he was the sole occupant of the tent. Mazoga had already left, and he could hear the hammers at the forge. It was the same rhythm, although not as inflammatory as the hammer blows in his dream. A voice called to him, from the door, and Hagurth informed him that a messenger had come from the Hall, asking for his attendance. He said he would be there shortly and bring Mazoga with him. However unwilling she may be, these meetings concerned her and the Forgeborn, as well. Before departing, Hagurth asked a puzzling question. "Have you returned from your steam hut?" He looked at her, quizzically. "Why do you ask?" The corners of her mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown, as if he'd insulted her keen senses. "It's warmer in here than it should be, after the morning chill, and there seems to be steam rising from your shoulders." He checked to see if she spoke true, and indeed, there were faint tendrils of steam rising from his arms and shoulders. On impulse, he looked down to the blade he had laid upon the bed, still in its wrapping. He could almost see traces of steam rising from it as well…


	2. Sharpening and Hunting

As he talked with Wrona, in her makeshift cart-tent, Mazoga, Forgemaster of his people, came to inform her that it was time for the "Sharpening Ceremony" and then immediately departed. Zorubaash looked at Wrona, quizzically, and asked, "What was that about?" Wrona shrugged and said, "I had asked your people for a spear to replace the one I had lost in the battle, defending the Hall. This is apparently part of the process." He frowned, pensively. This was new to him. There was so much he did not know about his new people. He had only known them for the week prior to the dungeon, when he found Lurog's Shame, entered their camp, embarked on a quest to reclaim Lurog's Pride, and returned as their chieftain. After that, he was trapped for a week within Zanarick's Dungeon, while months passed in this realm. He had only been back for a couple days, and his mind reeled at all that had transpired during that time.

As they had emerged from the dungeon through an immense dimensional door, triumphantly dragging the severed skull of the dracolich, Zanarick, they were greeted by guards, warriors, a jittery Alan, a threatening Spellbook, and a very upset Wrona, all with their spears, crossbows, and spells pointed at the supposed heroes. The Band of the Noble Rat had proven their identity well enough to everyone's satisfaction, under a Zone of Truth spell, and all hostility immediately ceased, but it had disturbed him to be received in that manner. He chose this time to finally ask Wrona, "What happened, while we were away? I know we have been told the basics, but I need to know the details. You bear a scar on your cheek, which I have never seen any mark upon you, before, even after taking heavy wounds. Your spear is broken, which you treasured, dearly. The people here seem fatigued and and on edge, beyond the strains of caring for my people and maintaining the Hall." He looked her square in the eyes and said, "Tell me, Wrona Oryxin. What has happened here?"

Wrona sighed and dropped her gaze, as she set aside her book. She stood and proceeded to the edge of her "tent", saying, "If I'm gonna tell you, we might as well walk and talk. I don't want to be late for this ceremony." He nodded, and stepped aside, holding the flap for her. As they walked towards the Forgeborn camp, Wrona explained to Zorubaash that after they had presented his letter of introduction and requests to Lady Effrix, they brought the Forgeborn to the Hall and set up camp within its walls. Shortly after that, people claiming to be the Band of the Noble Rat returned and demanded entrance. This was a ruse, of course, and the deceivers revealed themselves to be demons, leading an army of fallen orcs, and proceeded to attack the camp and the Hall, killing many warriors, workers, and servants. Several of the demons were trying to break into Spellbook's white tower, but he had teleported it directly above them, crushing their bodies as it fell. At one point, one of the demons within the hall transformed into a duplicate of Wrona, and the Forgeborn attacked them both. She defeated the demon, but had to slay a number of the Forgeborn in the process. She tried to revive and heal as many as she could, afterwards, but she expressed her condolences that she could not save them all, even with the help of Sanzor, the Dwarven Cleric, and Narvi, his Paladin wife. The remainder of the demons were finally defeated but at great cost to everyone. Afterwards, the Hall was fortified and more guards were hired to guard it. The Forgeborn moved their camp outside the walls, as they did not feel safe within, anymore.

Other "accidents" also occurred around that time. Masonry stones, meant for rebuilding the walls, had been enchanted to fly at Countess Abyth, and the kitchen fires attacked the workers, as if they were alive. Since then, Spellbook and Krell, the Warlock, had been dispelling any lingering enchantments and placing wards all along the walls and within the Hall. The attack and sabotage, combined with the restlessness of the Forgeborn, had taken its toll on the workers, guards, and Alan. The town of Venzor and its people also gave the Hall a wide berth, as it was rumored to be cursed. To top it all, nasty rumors had been spread that Regent Countess Sara was still under the sway of the Snake Cult and was plotting to enthrall all of Venzor. It had also been spread that Countess Abyth, Sara's daughter, was the bastard child of Regent Sara and her Orc lover, Brak.

All of this news struck Zorubaash square in the chest. He stepped in front of the Gnome Cleric and knelt down to face her directly, as he spoke, "I have no words to express my regret for placing this burden upon you and all these people. You have been a truer friend and ally than we could have ever imagined or wished for. I thank you, Wrona Oryxin. The Band has returned, and we will make this right. So swears Zorubaash Bloodfist, chieftain of the Forgeborn." She bowed her head in thanks, and he stood to walk beside her, again.

They eventually made their way to the forge tent, and Zorubaash noticed that it had been placed next to Spellbook's tower, just outside the walls and fortifications of the Hall. As they approached, one of the Forgeborn guards opened the flap and called to the Forgemaster, as the other held out a hand to stop them. Mazoga emerged, adorned with her apron, flush with tools of the forge. She bowed to her chieftain and asked if he desired to observe the ceremony. He asked if this would be acceptable, and she nodded, so he entered with them. She led him to a stool beside the forge, where a young Forgeborn female was working the bellows, diligently. A long steel shaft extended from the coals, capped with a well-crafted elephant, the symbol of Wrona's faith. She then motioned for Wrona to sit on a stool opposite from Zorubaash, and she obeyed. Two assistants brought over another stool and some tools for the ceremony, and Wrona was instructed to roll up her right sleeve. She did so, and one of the assistants handed her a dowel. Mazoga explained that it was for her to bite down on. Wrona's eyes went wide, as she didn't know what would come next. Mazoga proceeded to explain the remainder of the ceremony. Both Mazoga and Wrona would receive a cut, and their blood would drain into a bowl. Words would be spoken, and Wrona's part would be finished. The blood would then be used to temper the blade, marking it as passing from Forgemaster to its wielder. Wrona nodded her understanding, with a slight harumph, and bit down on the dowel, as the ceremony began.

Mazoga drew a blade from the table beside them and proceeded to add another cut to her arm, amongst the thousands that Zorubaash knew covered her entire body. As she cut she spoke the words, "With the blood of the forge, flowing from the heart of the Forgemaster, this weapon is passed to you, Wrona Oryxin." She wiped the blade clean, as her blood drained into the bowl, and then proceeded to draw the blade across Wrona's forearm. Wrona winced and bit down on the dowel, but then spoke, "And I carry it with honor." Her blood flowed into the bowl, and Mazoga nodded. When the bleeding stopped, the bowl was removed, and they were informed that the ceremony was now over. Wrona quickly used a healing prayer to seal up the wound and prevent any scarring. Mazoga, however, rubbed ash in hers, so that it would produce a raised scar, like those across her body. Wrona was informed that her spear would be ready in the morning. She thanked the Forgemaster, jumped up from her stool, and made her way outside.

Mazoga then approached Zorubaash and asked if he would be staying. He nodded, asking her if it would be possible to watch her work. She nodded, solemnly, and proceeded to pull the spear from the forge, its head white hot from the coals, placing it within a vice for honing. She worked the blade, with rasp and brush, removing any remaining impurities and flakes. The heat was intense, but Zorubaash did not balk. He was enraptured with her labor. The burning spear was like a beacon in his eyes, and he watched her practiced hands work their skill with solemn intent. After she had finished one side, she proceeded to work the other. After a while, she finished and left to consult with other smiths in the forge, issuing instructions and checking their work. She was diligent and stern, yet caring and encouraging. He had never seen this in her, before. It fascinated him. Eventually, she would return to the blade, as it cooled, checking its progress and further honing the blade. Finally, she took the blade and laid it in clay, sprinkling straw over it and then packing more clay on top. The clay had a deep red hue, and he wondered if it had been mixed with their blood. She nodded, and continued her work. When the clay was removed and the ash of the straw wiped away, the blade was a deep black. Mazoga stuck the shaft of the spear in the vice and began to polish the flat of the blade, removing some of the black and leaving a deep antiquing finish within the recessed image of many elephants parading across it. In his eyes, it was as if it all came alive. The relief of the elephants against the black antiquing finish enthralled him, and he thought he say them move, in an endless procession. She then proceeded to polish and sharpen the blade itself. As she worked, the black faded away to reveal a magnificent edge, with a rippling hamon, flowing like water along its length. His people were smiths and warriors, and Mazoga was their Forgemaster. He marveled to himself that she added great honor to their name.

...

Zorubaash knew he had witnessed a piece of his people, that night, and what he saw had captivated more of him than he expected. He had watched Mazoga work the blade, to shape the edge, and temper the steel. He had witnessed the honor they had paid Wrona and the care they took with that honor. He marveled at how little he knew. The forge tent was intense, its heat almost suffocating. It reminded him of the steam hut…without the steam. It reminded him of the times he would pile on extra rocks for more steam and a deeper trance. Then a thought struck him. Was this like their steam hut? Was this where they called the spirits of their ancestors and forged their spirits through calloused hands and into the blades they made? Was this the reason for all those scars? He continued to marvel at their work, even as Hagurth came and offered him a drink. He accepted it, with thanks, but his eyes never left their work. He would learn all he could. As chieftain, he had access that others did not. His teachers had drilled into him observation. His adventures had honed this skill. Now, he needed all of it to learn. Mazoga never spoke to him, and he didn't dare to interrupt her work. He admired them, and their ancestry, in a way. He admired the youngling, working the bellows. He admired the smiths and their diligence. Mostly, he began to admire Mazoga, more and more.

Eventually, the spear was finished. He watched a little longer at the care she took in wrapping it for presentation. It reminded him, vividly, of the care she had taken with the blade he now carried. He kicked himself for the way he had treated it, in front of her, and felt ashamed of how he had ignorantly carried it before. Yes, he would watch, and he would learn. He would need to temper his patience. He would need to hone his rage, like the blade. He would need to discover the heart of his people, if he was to walk with them, as the Bear walked with him.

Finally, he sensed that it was time to leave. Silently, he departed the forge, so as not to disturb their work. He did not notice if eyes watched him or not. He was lost in thought, and the heat had almost turned that pensive state into a trance. The outside air revived him and broke his reverie, but still the thoughts lingered, with still more questions behind them. Was he simply a usurper? The way in which he had claimed the blade, all those months ago, seemed to pale in comparison to the ceremony required by his people to give a blade to its new owner. Bah! He grew tired of these questions, and the hunt called to him. He would sort out his mind in the midst of the wilds of the Deep Forest, where death slept and glory waited.

At last, Mazoga emerged from the forge, with the others. She gave instructions and conversed for a time, before heading towards her tent. He set his path through the camp and eventually arrived at her side. He was mindful to keep stride with her and made no moves to indicate that he was there to speak. He simply wished to walk beside her, towards their destination. Arriving at the tent, he momentarily forgot what he had observed before and moved to open the tent for her. She did not wait for him but simply walked in of her own accord. The reminder was silent yet poignant. She was her own person. He entered, and she was already disrobing. He moved to the washing bowl and the pitcher, pouring the water for her bath and then walked to a part of the tent where he could remove his gear. If neither learned from the other, then they would never move forward. He began to remove his equipment but kept his senses sharp to perceive what she would do with this offering. Once he had finished, he set down his quiver but kept the axe in his belt and the blade on his back.

She was at the bowl but turned to ask the same question, "Will my Chief be taking me, tonight?" He stood there for a moment, counting the marks on her body, then said, "No. I only ask that you listen, while I tell you about my blade." At this, he drew the ceremonial blade from the sheath at the small of his back. It was primitive, compared to the blades they forged, but for his people of the mountains, it told their story. He rolled it over in his hands, examining the runes and designs he had made upon it. She nodded and began to wash. "From our first hunt, we take the jaw of our prey and craft these blades. We mark them with the runes our shamans give us and etch them with patterns from our ancestors. As we hunt greater prey and gain strength, we are given more runes, and our designs become more elaborate. Each etching and marking telling our story. Eventually, the blades will break or become useless from their repeated use. At that time, we must find a mighty beast to hunt, and claim their teeth to craft a new one. Their teeth become our teeth. Their claws become our tools. Their bones and hide become our armor. Their meat and blood become our life. Their strength becomes ours, and we thank them for their passing. For my people, weapons are tools to survive the wastes. To us, a strong body and a sharp mind are our real weapons, for they will never leave you. With them, we craft better tools for our survival. With them, we outsmart and overpower our foes. We take what we must and give thanks. We learn and adapt, to become a better hunter."

She finished her bath and moved to the bed. He unbuckled the lower fastener of the blade's sheath, so that it hung loosely on his shoulders, then walked to the foot of the bed. He turned his back to her and sat in his watchful manner, while the blade remained on his shoulders. He drew his axe and held it in his right hand. As he crossed his arms over his knees, he continued, regardless of whether she was listening or not, "Eventually, my people stopped hunting, because our chieftain, Gruuk, told us we were strong. The shamans became tokens to our people, and our warbands began raiding settlements for weapons, armor, and women…because we were 'strong'…Gruuk ordered the strongest warriors to breed with the women, to make smarter warriors. Many women did not survive the mating, let alone the birthing. Our ways were too brutal for such fragile creatures. Of the children born from those couplings, only a few score were strong and clever enough to survive the training. The weaklings became food for the beasts or sport for the berserks. Of those survivors, only a few of us rose to prominence in training, but our numbers were growing, as the chieftain would not heed the shamans and abandon his madness, because his pride was strong."

He checked his senses to see if she was sleeping. He heard steady breathing, but no sounds of sleep. She had not moved, and so he continued, "I was strongest in training. My sword brother, Braakam, was clever and had a sharp eye. My shield sister, Raashazur, was good with the axe and fleet of foot. We enjoyed our sparring, and learned much from each other. Soon, we rivaled the teachers and were promised to a warband. The chieftain acknowledged our strength, and assigned our raiding parties, personally. I was never satisfied, however. Often, I looked to the stars and wondered what lay beyond the mountains. I hungered for more. The shamans took note of this and found ways to send me on hunts far from the clan, between our raids. After a time, I began slipping away to hunt on my own, always seeking stronger prey or greater numbers." He paused for a moment and then, recalling a poignant time in from those days, he continued, "Once, I was lost in thought, during a hunt. Instead of watching my surroundings, I stared at the stars and marveled at their shapes. A pack of Dire Wolves attacked and took me unawares. I lost my hammer to a glancing blow, and another knocked me over. Before I was driven into a snow bank, I wondered if this would be my last hunt."

He paused for a moment, as the memories washed over him, and he could feel the biting chill of the snow against his skin. "I spun on the ground to meet my death with a roar, but found it drowned by another. A great bear descended upon the pack, mauling one of the wolves at the back of the pack. It's as if time had stopped, for myself and the wolves. They were distracted by the sudden attack and torn between their choices. None of them wanted to ignore the fierce bear, but neither did they want to relinquish their prey. For a moment, I lay there, panting, spewing hot clouds of my breath against the cold of the mountains. Then I saw the bear take the chance to attack another wolf, and I pounced on the one before me, roaring my defiance at death. The bear rent the wolf in two. I tore out the other's throat with my tusks. The remaining wolves fled, and we stood, roaring at them as they ran. Realization struck us both in that instant, and we turned to face each other, neither moving to attack. I had chased off one death, only to face another, but the bear did not attack. It only sniffed the air and turned away, dragging the corpse of a wolf with it. I stood there for a time, trying to make sense of it all. Eventually, I looked to the stars and thanked the ancestors for a mighty ally. I prepared the corpse of the wolf I'd slain, gathered my weapons, and made my way back to the clan."

He didn't check to sense if she was listening, anymore. He just continued, "The head shaman was waiting for me, outside the camp. He asked my story, and I told him what had happened. He smiled and handed me one of their bags, full of seeking implements. He said I was no longer just a warrior. He then took my blade, broke it, and set the pieces on the wolf's corpse, marking me as a wanderer. He told me to follow the Bear Spirit, that it would guide me. The body of the wolf would be my parting tithe to the clan, and with it, no one would hunt me. On that day, my journey began, and the Bear walked with me."

He heard her gentle breathing and felt her shift on the bed. He longed to look upon her and catch a glimpse of a peaceful expression, instead of her dutiful stares. Instead, he simply whispered, "I'm sorry." He lay his head upon his arms, and finally, sleep claimed him…

Again, he was on the blasted plains, the acrid smoke burning his lungs and the scorching fires searing his flesh. As rivers of blood ran by him, they carried the screams of countless souls trapped within them. Again, the dark creatures rose and began their endless march towards him. This time, however, he was not alone. The mountain bear stood beside him, bloodied by combat. He laid his hand upon its flank, and he could feel the steady beat of a fierce heart. [thump] It calmed him. [thump] It called to him. [thump] It filled him with life. [thump] Together they stood. [thump] Together they roared. [thump] The ground shook, and the mountains cracked. [THUMP]

His head shot up, as he woke with a gasp. He gulped air back into his lungs, as if they had been completely emptied. A hand lay on his shoulder. Its callouses were course against his flesh. Mazoga knelt beside him. "Is the Chief well?" He looked around, unsure of her question. The washing bowl had been overturned, and the floor was damp. "What happened?" he asked. In a dutiful manner, she replied, "You were…growling in your sleep. When I went to check, you roared, and I…moved away." He felt his heart pounding in his chest and heard the rapid pulse drumming in his ears. He wondered if he had frightened her and moved to put a comforting hand on hers, but she pulled hers away. He frowned for a moment, then reassured her, "I am well, Forgemaster. Dark dreams and omens have plagued me, lately."

She had been picking up the bowl, but paused at his words. He could not see her face to gauge her reaction. She gave none, so he continued. "I will seek the Bear, soon," He stated, as he rose to his feet and turned towards her, buckling his sheath. "I would have you and Hagurth attend me. You must witness, as my Forgemaster, and she seems eager to learn the ancient ways. I will not hide who I am from either of you." She turned her head and spoke, "As my Chief wills." With that, she set down the bowl and proceeded to dress herself. Gore simply picked up his quiver and breeches, then departed the tent. He needed to hunt, and he had already disturbed her morning.

Outside, he donned his breeches, fastened his quiver of javelins to his side and stuck the axe in his belt. He checked the fitting of his gear, making sure that everything was snug and ready for a hunt. He rolled his shoulders in the early dawn, enjoying the freedom from all other bindings. The air was cool and refreshing. He stretched some, as Tharkum had taught him, feeding vitality into his limbs. He offered a hunting prayer to the Bear, just as Mazoga emerged from the tent. She nodded to him and made her way to the forge. He watched her leave, longingly, but then shook those thoughts from his mind and struck out for the forest and the hunt.

...

The hunt was indeed a good one. He downed an owl bear, along with a few smaller perytons who had thought to swoop upon him, while he had been dressing the owl bear. He gutted the beasts, saving the gibblets that were good for eating and leaving one of the perytons intact for the Bear Spirit, as was his blood tithe for a good hunt. Once he was done cleaning his weapons and securing them to his person, he loaded the carcasses upon a drag-litter he had fashioned from two sturdy saplings he felled and a tarp he had retrieved from his bag, using the excess tarp to cover the bodies and keep flies away. He hefted the litter, dragging it behind him, as he followed a deer trail he had noticed during his hunt, leading out of the forest.

His return was eventful, as a shambling mound sought to pick a fight with the young chieftain. With rage and fire, he felled the beast and reclaimed his spoils from the hunt. He left the smoldering husk of the creature where it lay, whispering a prayer of the Great Cycle, as he passed. Drawing nearer to the edge of the forest, he began to notice eyes watching him, and stealthy feet following him. He took note of the watchers and made a quick mental check of his gear to ensure he would be ready for another ambush. As he neared a clearing in the path, he dropped the litter and dove into the thick underbrush, tackling one of the unseen creatures. He pinned it to the ground and drew his axe to finish it, when he stopped fast, as realization struck him. Below him was Hagurth, both hands struggling against his own mighty paw that pinned her to the ground. "Hold, my Chief!" she gasped through pressed lungs, as he had not checked his strength for an ally but had anticipated an enemy. Quickly, he withdrew his hand and stood over her, while she caught her breath.

"Why do you hunt me?" he bellowed, as other Forgeborn came out of hiding. Hagurth began to recover herself and replied, "Not hunt, my Chief. You were spotted leaving the camp, and later it was reported that there were sounds of battle inside the forest. I gathered warriors to investigate the noises." He offered her his hand to stand, and she accepted. "Then why did you wait in ambush?", he asked as she was brought up to face him. "We saw a great beast lumbering in the shadows of the forest, easily longer and larger than any Orc, so we hid and waited. When I saw that it was my Chief, I motioned for the warriors to let you pass without any intervention." His face became thoughtful, as he realized that must have been what tipped him off to her presence near him. She noticed his pensive face and asked, hurriedly, "Is my Chief upset?" He shook off the thoughts, and sought to look upon her as a fellow warrior and welcome companion. "No," he said. "I was thinking of the tracking skills and pack tactics of my people. I am not upset. I am glad that you are fine hunters." She seemed to hold a mixture of pride and embarrassment, as she replied, "My Chief still caught us." He barked, "Ha! Only because you hesitated and you were not facing a beast of the forest. You set up a fine ambush, around the clearing, and only the sharpest senses would have noticed your watchers. I am glad to see you have sharpened your skills in these forests, while I was gone." At this, she seemed a bit hesitant to reply. "But, my Chief, we have not hunted since you left," she said, finally. A look of disbelief crossed his face, as he asked, "What? Why have my people not been hunting? Who has ordered this?" She did not want to respond, and he saw the hesitance in her face. "Speak!" he ordered. "My Chief did not say to hunt, and so his people did not hunt." The simple statement struck him like a hammer blow to the face, and he was dumbfounded.

The Forgeborn hung on the words of two people, in their clan, those of the Forgemaster and the Chieftain. He had learned in the brief time before he left and in the short time since his return that the Forgemaster cared for the spiritual and daily needs of the clan, to the best of her abilities, but he did not know the role of a chieftain, their chieftain, other than what he knew of his former clan and the mountain tribes. His failure to realize pierced him, and for a moment, he lost his words. Finally, he spoke, "I am sorry, my people. I had not realized my failure, until now." He heard murmurs among the other warriors, but all he saw in Hagurth's eyes was shock. He wondered, then, if they knew a chieftain could ever apologize. He set his jaw and continued, "I will speak with the Forgemaster. My people must hunt. The hunt is good, and my people must have what is good. I will not fail them, again." At this, she seemed to perk up, and the uncertainty disappeared from her face. He nodded and then motioned to the litter, packed with game, and said, "The Chief returns, with food for his people. Will you return with me?" She nodded, dutifully, and motioned for the other warriors to take their positions in the train, as he hefted the litter, once again, and set out for the camp of his people.

They made their way back to camp, and were unaccosted by any watching predators. It seemed as though beasts did not want to challenge a hunting party in full force, even for the large morsels they carried, and he took note of it. As they crossed the camp's perimeter, the children ran up to the party but not to count coup. They marveled at the bundles upon the litter, cheering the successful hunt and chattering excitedly. They would look at their chieftain and his warriors with awe and respect, and he smiled back at them. "Good," he thought. "Children should admire their adults and aspire to be like them." More of the camp began to gather around the party. It was as if the camp was coming alive, and Zorubaash rejoiced, in his heart. Eventually, Hagurth guided them to the place where they would skin the beasts and prepare the meat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zorubaash caught a sideways nod from Hagurth. Curious, he glanced in the direction she was looking and saw Mazoga standing on the periphery. He didn't dare stare, as there seemed to be some ceremony to it all, but he wanted to. He wanted to know if she approved. Once the beasts were unloaded and everyone had set to their work, he took a moment to scan the same spot where he had sighted Mazoga earlier, but she had already gone. Hagurth then spoke up, beside him, "This will be a good tale, my Chief." He looked to her and gave a deep nod. "The first of many, I hope."

Before taking his leave, he spoke again to Hagurth. "I will be seeking the Bear, soon. I would have you and Mazoga witness it." She turned to face him, abruptly, and asked, "Does the Forgemaster know this?!" He nodded and replied, "She does. I spoke with her this morning, before the dawn was upon us." He felt as if there was something he was missing, but he would have to track that down later. He needed to check in with the Band and make sure Kleatus had not stirred up more trouble for them, however much fun it usually was. He chuckled a little, as he turned away and headed for the Hall of the Noble Rats.


	3. A Vision and a Chieftain, Pt. 1

He had finished making his final preparations to the steam hut, when Mazoga and Hagurth arrived. He motioned for them to stand by the tent, and moved to the fire. It had burned long and hot that evening, and he had cared for it all that time, making sure to keep the stones at its heart. Now the fire had reached a steady point, with enough coals to keep the bed heated and the hot air rising pulled more oxygen into the flames, causing the flames to settle, in a low searing intensity that told him it was ready. He set a piece of kindling at the edges long enough for it to ignite. With his right hand, he then picked up the bowl with smudge he had prepared and lit the appropriate end. The white sage was hard to acquire, but it had been well prepared and caught fire, immediately. He let the end burn for a few seconds, within the bowl, before he blew out the flames, so the sweet smoke would rise. He began to offer prayers as the smoke rose and then cast the kindling into the fire, causing sparks to rise, like new stars, into the sky. With his left hand, he drew his ceremonial blade at his side.

Turning to Mazoga and Hagurth, he examined them, briefly. He had instructed them to wear little clothing, as this was a primal, cleansing ceremony, and the smoke must touch their skin as much as possible. They wore only strips of cloth, bound about their waist and chest. "Good," he thought. They had taken his words to heart. He would show them how to cleanse another, before they did so to him. Stepping over to Hagurth, he instructed her to spread her arms, with hands upwards toward the sky. He knelt before her, keeping the bowl just above the ground, and began to waft the smoke over her feet, with the flat of the blade, sending its tendrils curling around her form. He told her to breathe deeply of the cleansing smoke and to offer any prayers that came to her or simply remain silent and reflect upon the wilderness, the sky, and her ancestors. She obeyed, while he offered the prayers he had heard the shamans say, adding things he had learned in his vision quests. After she took a couple breaths, he began to rise, still wafting the smoke over her. When the bowl was chest level with her, he began to move it along her left arm and then her right, spreading the smoke as he went. He came back to her chest, just over her heart and passed smoke over her head a couple times.

"Good," he said. "Now take the bowl in your right hand and the blade in your left." She obeyed, solemnly. "Now do the same to Mazoga, as I have done to you. I will observe and offer the prayers. Hear them and let them guide your mind, your body, and your spirit." She nodded and moved to Mazoga, who took the same stance as Hagurth had been instructed. Zorubaash held his hands in supplication, and offered prayers, all the while observing Hagurth perform the ceremony. He was keen to offer any guidance she might have needed, but it was not necessary. She had paid close attention and managed well enough on her own. When she was done, he instructed Mazoga to take the bowl and blade as Hagurth had and perform the ceremony on him. She obeyed, and he stood ready, arms spread in supplication to the spirits. As she began, he continued to offer his prayers. The smoke curled up his body, and he could feel it ripple over his tattoos, like fingers tracing the lines. When she reached his chest, he almost faltered in his prayers. What did he hear? Were they prayers? Was she offering her own? His heart began to pound, and he breathed deeply, drawing his mind back to the prayers he must speak. Still his heart pounded, as the smoke was spread over his arms and their cleansing fragrance filled his lungs. He was not apprehensive. He was happy. He felt joy and connection in this ceremony.

Eventually Mazoga finished, and he took the bowl and blade from her, offering thanks. He picked up the smudge bundle and smothered the smoldering end against the edge of the bowl, making sure to collect any ash within the vessel. He set the remaining smudge at the foot of Lurog's pride, where he had propped it against the hut, erect, so that the spirits it held could observe the ceremony. Then he did something he had only seen the shamans do once before. He instructed Hagurth to hold the bowl, again, this time in her left hand. As she obeyed, he cupped the back of her right hand and looked into her eyes. With a reassuring tone, he said, "Bear the pain." She nodded, and he held her hand over the bowl, as he dragged its edge across her palm. He then told her to clench her fist and drain the blood into the bowl. She obeyed, and when the bleeding stopped, he took the bowl from her and moved to Mazoga. She took the bowl, as she had seen Hagurth do and held her other hand over the bowl. He moved to cup the back of her hand, and she pulled away. "Don't," he said sternly. "Don't fight me. This I must do, for you and for this." She placed her hand in his, with understanding. He drew the edge across her hand, and the blood ran into the bowl. When the bleeding stopped, he told her to remove her hand from over the bowl. As her hand left his, he drew the edge across his own hand and let the blood drain as before. When the bleeding stopped, he took the bowl and used the butt of his blade to mix the blood and ash. Then he set the blade down beside the smudge, at the foot of Lurog's Pride.

Moving back to the pair, he dipped his finger in the paste within the bowl and began to draw shapes and runes upon each of them. As he worked, he explained, "With shared blood and cleansing ash, I mark you as companions on my journey. They will ward you from any spirits who would seek to rend and corrupt, and their essence will draw the Bear from his hunting grounds in the sky." When he finished, he instructed Hagurth to take the bowl and told Mazoga to draw the runes and shapes upon him. They obeyed, and the preparations were almost complete. Before he retrieved the bowl from Hagurth, he dipped his thumb in the paste and covered the cut on his hand, before doing the same to them. "Do not allow the spirits to enter through your blood," he said, and they nodded their understanding.

Finally, he set the bowl beside the ceremonial blade and pulled the sword from its sheath, with reverence. He moved to face the entrance of the hut and lifted the blade above his head in supplication and spoke to the sky, "I carry the pride of my people into the presence of my ancestors. I ask that the great chieftains look upon my people and mark their tale. With this, I bind my spirit with their legacy. They are my people, and I am their chieftain. Their story is my story, and mine is theirs. I shouldered their shame, and they are strong to carry mine. I reclaimed their pride and returned it to them. They are my pride, and they add to it, daily. Guard them on our journey, and remember well the heart of my people."

He cradled the blade in his arms and turned to Mazoga and Hagurth, explaining, "I will enter and sit across from the entrance. When you are ready, Mazoga, enter and sit beside me. Afterwards, Hagurth, you may begin drawing the stones from the fire with the tongs and place them within the pit of the hut, near the entrance. Continue picking the hottest stones and placing them within the pit until I tell you otherwise. Once you are done, sit near the pit, close the flap, and sprinkle the Bear Root I have placed near the pit over the stones. Let the smoke fill the hut and breathe deeply of its fragrance, both of you. When I tell you to "pour", dip the ladle into the water and pour it over the stones, in circles. Pour until I motion you to stop, then sit opposite of the pit." For a moment, they only stared at one another, with anticipation. He looked to Hagurth. "Yours will be the job of maintaining the heat and steam. If the heat or steam become too much, step out quietly to revive yourself with the waterskin and then return, silently." Then he looked to Mazoga and said, "Yours will the job of my watcher. If anything goes wrong, you will revive me. Yours will be the first face I see, when the quest is over." She nodded solemnly. He looked them over again. The paste had set well and was still supple enough not to crack. He pulled back the flap of the hut and spoke, "May the Bear greet us and share his wisdom."

The fire cast a warm light across the floor, bisecting the hut's interior. Zorubaash picked his way around the edge of the hut, and the swath of firelight lay upon a small clay pot, sealed with dark wax and bound by red string. As with the blood and ash paste he had witnessed the shamans use, he had only witnessed this jar used once, in the same ceremony. He had once asked the shaman what it was, and he had told him that it was fermented Black Root. It was powerful medicine for their most potent vision quests and rituals. The shaman had then pointed to several tattoos upon his body. These had been made with black ink they had derived from the root. He was told it was a long and excruciating process, as the Black Root, in its raw form, is extremely poisonous. Even in its derivative state, the ink would burn and send the shamans into a deep trance, causing them to experience great visions during the tattooing ceremony. At that point, he both feared and revered the item. Now, he was about to take the Black Root, himself, and follow the Bear on a vision quest for answers…for his people. In a moment, the same fear and reverence gripped him. He shook off the fear, as it would not aid him here, but he kept the reverence. This would change many things, but his people were worth it.

He set down the blade on a dry pelt and wrapped it in the same manner Mazoga had, in her tent, and sat cross legged. It was about that time that she entered and picked her way around the opposite site of the hut, coming to sit beside him. She also took note of the clay jar before him but did not ask what it contained. He looked to her, and she nodded that she was ready. He placed his hands upon his knees and spoke to Hagurth, "Begin." In a few moments, she began placing stones within the pit. When they were piled within a few inches of the rim, he spoke again, "Good. Return the tongs and enter." Soon, she entered, closing the flap behind her. Darkness engulfed them, save for the soft glow of the heated stones within the pit.

Hagurth sat between the bucket of water and the pit, patiently. He nodded towards her, and she picked up the bag of Bear Root, sprinkling its contents over the stones. The shredded root sparked and crackled, as it touched the searing surface of the stones, releasing its incense into the air. The calming, tantalizing aroma filled the low hut and entered their nostrils, filling their lungs. It was a sweet, earthy smell, and it called to his soul. It carried memories of the mountains and the forests, of campfires and pines, of hearth and home. After a short time, he simply said, "Pour." Hagurth dipped the ladle into the bucket and poured the water over the stones, in a steady and ceremonious circle. The steam mixed with the incense of the Bear Root in a cloyingly sweet vapor that washed over them.

As she poured, Zorubaash leaned over and plucked the jar from its place. Prayerfully, he removed the strings, which symbolized blood and life. He twisted the lid, breaking the black wax that represented ash and death. He removed the lid, and the sickly sweet aroma of the fermented Black Root struck his senses like a hammer blow. It smelled of sweet death, burning his nostrils, searing his eyes, and numbing his mind. All of his instincts screamed at him to cast it away, but he gathered his resolved and bound his instincts to heel. He pinched some of the moist contents between his thumb and forefinger, much like he had seen Kleatus do with his chewing leaf, and placed the lid back on the jar, setting it back on the floor in front of him. He was about to place the root in his cheek, when he noticed Mazoga reaching for the jar. He stopped her, with his free hand, and shook his head, when she looked back at him. "Yours is to watch, while I take the Black Root," he said. She jerked back her hands and stared at him, her eyes wide. He briefly wondered if they knew of it, here in the lowlands, but pressed forward.

He stuck the moist compost between his cheek and gums, as he breathed a prayer to his ancestors. The instant it nestled against his gums, the area began to tingle and burn, with malice. He inhaled sharply, and the cloyingly sweet smell of death permeated his senses. He fought back the instinct to spit it out, and forced himself to focus on the Bear, his people, and his promise. He motioned for Hagurth to stop pouring, and she set down the ladle and moved across from the pit. As she did so, he unwrapped the blade and lay it across his lap, speaking the prayers of seeking. He laid his hands, palms upward, upon his knees, continuing his prayers and beseeching the Bear to attend him. Mazoga only watched, and he felt the Black Root begin to work its medicine. The smell and taste began to change, and the burning began to fade. Soon it was only sweet to him. The involuntary convulsing subsided and waves of calm began to pass over his mind. He closed his eyes and simply breathed, deeply and steadily. When he opened his eyes, the Bear stood before him, and they were standing in a sea of swirling mist…

The great Bear Spirit stood before him, its hide covered in stars, and asked, "Why have you sought me?" Zorubaash spoke with purpose, "For your guidance." The Bear nodded. "And what weighs upon your heart?" He thought for a moment and replied, "My people…all of them." The Bear nodded again, and spoke, "And what do you carry?" At this, Zorubaash looked down and saw the blade in his hands. He looked back to the Bear, held the blade in supplication, and replied, "The pride of my people!" The Bear bowed his great head and breathed starlight upon the blade. It awoke to flames but did not burn him. "You carry them with you," said the Bear. "Come, I have much to show you since your absence from this realm." The Bear turned, and Zorubaash followed, carrying his people with him.

They walked for what seemed like an eternity and a little longer. Finally, the mists parted, and Zorubaash saw the blasted plains and burning mountains, again. "What is this place?" he asked the Bear. "It is what will become of your world," it replied. "Evil seeks to plunge all the realms into death and chaos." At this, the dark figures sprang once more from the wastes and the mountains. "What are these wretched things?" Zorubaash asked of the Bear. "Do you not recognize your own people, young chieftain?" replied the Bear. He looked again and began to recognize faces of his kin amongst the beasts, warped and twisted by darkness. His strength left him, and Zorubaash fell to his knees. In whispers, he asked, "How? How could this be?" The Bear moved its head towards the mountains and said, "Look to the chieftains, whose pride led their people to ruin." He looked and saw the chieftains standing atop the mountains, with wicked smiles upon their faces. Then rage welled up inside him, and he roared in his fury, "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! THEY ARE YOUR PEOPLE!" The chieftains only laughed, at his futile rage. The laughter echoed through the mountains and rolled across the blasted plains. They coalesced into a single laugh, and he knew it. He leapt to his feet and took the blade in both hands, bellowing, "Syrdar, you cancerous worm! Do not hide from me. Show yourself!"

A shadowed figure stepped out from the crowd of twisted faces, still laughing, "I am here, Zorubaash. Why would I hide from someone like you?" Zorubaash pointed the burning blade at the vile figure and cast his accusations, "You have warped the hearts of the chieftains. You have corrupted the souls of my people. I WILL END YOU!" Syrdar laughed all the louder, "You can try, little orcling, but why do you accuse me? I only did as your mother bid me." Zorubaash was shocked. He had never known his mother, much like all the other half-orcs of his clan. He was told she had died during childbirth. "Lies!" he proclaimed, and Syrdar struck a mocking pose of someone who was deeply offended. "Why would I lie?!" he wailed. Then he stood upright, and pointed a sinister finger at the young chieftain. "With her dying breath, she cursed you and your people! It amuses me that I'm able to fulfill her wish." He smiled, cruelly and continued, "It wasn't difficult, either. Trifling really. These chieftains were mad for power. I simply provided the means to make their warriors stronger. Look!" and he waved his hands towards the shambling horde behind him. "Aren't they strong? Aren't they fierce? Such a noble people." Zorubaash reached his limit, and began to roar in anger. Syrdar only laughed louder at his fury and melted into the horde, again.

The sea of faces then began to lumber towards him. Impossibly quick, they swarmed him, clawing at his flesh and seeking to tear the sword from his grasp. He struck out, trying to drive them back, but his blows passed through them, like some viscous vapor. They were like an ocean, and with each wave, he began to founder. He was pulled into the inky blackness, full of screams and cries of madness. Then he heard it, again, the hammering of the forge. With each hammer blow, he could feel the sound echo through him. Then he looked to the blade and saw it pulsing in the same rhythm. The sound seemed to come from the flames, themselves. He tightened his grip and drew the blade closer, whispering, "I will not forsake you. You are my people, and I treasure you, dearly."

With each pulse, the familiar heat began to rise within him, like before. As the hammering grew louder, the flames crept from the blade and began to engulf him, but he did not burn. The flames enveloped him, and he began to resonate with the blade. He looked down to see that his flesh had become like steel, and his tattoos pulsed with light, as if the forge burned within him. A final blow struck the forge, and he roared with it, in elation. The fire burst outward and burned away the swirling sea of shadows, and he stood upon the plane of stars, again.

The Bear was facing him again, as it spoke, "Seek me, soon. There is still much to show you." With that, it turned and walked back into the sky. Zorubaash moved to call the Bear, again, but hands reached out of the flames and pulled him back to the hut. Convulsively, he spat out the Black Root in his mouth, and its inky juices spilled over his lip and down his chin. He gulped in clean air, and it was cooler than he expected. He looked up, and saw moonlight through the open flap of the hut. A hand lay on each of his shoulders, and he looked up to see Mazoga and Hagurth staring at him, with shock and worry upon their faces. "Are you well, my Chief?" asked Hagurth, with anticipation. "When the blade began to glow and you cried out, we feared you were being burned."

He looked down to the blade, still in his lap, and he saw steam still rising from it. He stammered, between gasps, his senses slowly returning to him, "I am…well, Hagurth Forgeborn. The Bear showed me...many things." She looked relieved and then, as if realizing another question, asked, "What of your people?" He did not hesitate with his words, this time. The Bear had granted him a great insight. He smiled, warmly, and replied, "They are well, and they never left me. They are indeed strong." He raised his hands off his knees and cupped theirs, still resting upon his shoulders. He looked at them both, with immeasurable affection, and said, "You never left me, and I would not forsake you. The Forgeborn are well, and they are my pride."

They removed their hands, silently, and Mazoga left the tent. As Zorubaash began to wrap the blade, again, he instructed Hagurth to pour the remainder of the water over the stones, to cool them. As she did so, barely any steam rose. How long had he been in that trance, he wondered to himself. She exited the hut, after he dismissed her. He then picked up the blade and the jar, and made his way out. He would need to seal the jar again, before the night was over. It was indeed powerful medicine and needed to be contained. As he emerged from the hut, he noticed that Mazoga had already gone. Hagurth was attending to the pile of ash and stones that was once the fire. She was careful to dowse the coals, so that no embers would start a fire over the night. He noticed that the marks he had made upon her body had already melted and run down her muscled frame. He was glad that they had been unaccosted by any wayward spirits, and thanked the ancestors, but his gaze did linger upon her for a moment, soaking in her beauty. Eventually, he shook himself from lustful thoughts and returned to his task.

He sheathed the great blade and began to rummage through the shaman's bag for the black sealing wax and red string. As he applied the implements to seal the pot, Hagurth finished her work and approached him. Then she spoke, "I heard you tell the Forgemaster that you were taking the Black Root." He looked up from his chore, tying off the string and placing the implements back into the bag, along with the jar, and replied, "I did, and I did." She started to speak, "Did the Chief know…" She paused, unsure of her words. "Did the Chief know that it was a poison?" There seemed to be more behind her question, but he chose to reply directly, "I did. This 'medicine', as my shamans called it, was prepared in such a way as to bring you close to death, without killing you…although, too much will still kill." She blurted out, "And still you took it?! Why?" He stood to reassure her, saying, "I had to see what the Bear would show me. My usual visions only last moments. I had to stay longer, this time." He smiled, and the moonlight shown upon his face, glinting off his tusks. "I am well, however. You both attended me, diligently." She stepped back and stammered, "My…my Chief! Your chin! It is marked!" He rubbed his chin, but nothing came off. He stuck his hand into his bag and pulled a mirrored piece of metal from within. Holding it up to his face, he looked and saw that a black triangle had formed upon his chin, much like the marks upon the chins of the Forgeborn, and he wondered what it meant.

After reassuring Hagurth that the mark was probably just a stain from the juices of the Black Root and would likely wear off over time, he sent her back to the camp, with his thanks. He then gathered his things, slung the blade over his back, and made his way to Mazoga's tent, exhausted from the quest. As he moved through the camp, it felt as if a party of ogres had abused him like a rag doll. His feet were heavy and seemed to stick to the ground, like he was slogging through a bog. His breathing was heavy, as if he'd run to keep up with the centaurs, and his lips still tingled. He entered Mazoga's tent, and noticed that she had already finished wiping away any lingering remnants of the runes and symbols he had put on her. She looked over to him and asked, again, "Will my Chief be taking me, tonight?" He set down his belongings and placed the blade at the foot of the bed, reverently. He then stood and looked at her, to reply, "No, same as the nights before." She nodded her understanding, but he continued, "I would ask, however, to share your bed." She paused, and then nodded, again. She lay upon the bed, and he lay beside her. He drew her to him, and she did not resist. He simply held her close, and whispered between tired breaths, as exhaustion took him, "I will not…forsake you…my treasure…my people…"

...

He awoke before the dawn and noticed that Mazoga had already risen. He wondered if she had stayed in his arms the entire night but could not recall, as his sleep had been deep and peaceful. She now knelt at the foot of the bed, staring at the mark on his leg. Noticing his waking, she simply asked, "Who made this mark upon my Chief?" He snorted his disgust. "A dark sorcerer, named Syrdar, placed that cursed mark upon me, soon after I set foot in these lowlands," he replied. At this, she looked at him, and said, "You growled that name in your trance. Who was this enemy?" He drew himself upright, covering the mark, as he crossed his legs. He corrected her, "Not 'was'. He is a Dark Elf, what these people call a Drow. I woke in a cage, surrounded by other unfortunate captives, in a dark basement of torture and vile rituals." He seethed, as the memories returned, and continued, "I saw a man explode from within, as the many brands upon his flesh enacted their dark magic, and spiders erupted from his wounds. Back then, I was merely a curiosity, a sacrificial tool for Syrdar to conjure his vile medicine." She quickly looked back to his leg, almost expectantly, but he reassured her, "The magic in that brand has been broken. After I broke us from our cages, those of us who survived, were found by the city guard and taken to Venzor, where Sanzor cleansed the wound and shattered whatever dark powers it held. To repay their kindness, I and those who were with me took up tasks from the town and helped where we could."

He reminisced for a moment and even barked a haughty laugh, as he recalled, "We stumbled upon a snake cult that had infiltrated even Lady Effrix's court. We followed their slithering trail back into the forest and freed the townsfolk, who had been taken to their temple. We could not save them all, however. We were too late for the children, but we had promised Abyth to try. We even managed to save her mother, who had been partially transformed into a snake beast...but we could not save the children." He trailed off briefly, as he remembered the deep regret he held for failing to save them. He breathed pensively, and continued, "I met Ulamaak Bloodfist there. He had been nailed upon a torturer's crucifix, but still the fury of my former clan burned fiercely within him. He called me 'forsaken', yet still I freed my brother, tended his wounds, and gave him a weapon to fight. I told him to watch what I had learned in my travels, to see that I had grown stronger, in my wandering. We climbed to the top of their temple, breaking the snake men upon our blades and taking their heads. We reached the top, and I grappled with their false god, Slavesh, while my allies harried him from all sides. I cast his body from the temple summit and left his ruined corpse in the pits below." Then sorrow took Zorubaash, as he remembered what came next. "I built a pyre upon the snake's ruined temple. We gathered the bodies of the children, which Slavesh had consumed as sacrifices for his ascension, and sent them to meet their ancestors. The fire burned high into the night sky, and their souls were finally free." He snorted, defiantly, at the memories and proceeded, "We returned to Venzor, as heroes and saviors."

Mazoga had risen and begun to ready herself for the forge, but he wanted to finish telling her of his old enemy, so he continued, "Through our adventures, we encountered more and more of Syrdar's vile handiwork. Eventually, after I left you and continued my journey to Neotham, we came upon a wandering woman, who revealed herself to be a demon and servant of Syrdar, sent to kill me." He put his hand to the scar on his face, absentmindedly, as he recalled the vile creature and its ravening spines. "We sent it back to the hells that spawned it, well enough, and then rested for the night. Syrdar was not done tormenting us, however, and sent another demon and her minions to capture us and offer our lives as sacrifices to Zanarick. That is when we were taken to the dungeon."

She had moved to the door of the tent, but then paused and turned, saying, "But you did not remain." He slid off the bed and crossed to her, standing to his full height and looking upon her, warmly, as he replied, "No, I did not. I had to return to my people. I had to come home, to you." She simply nodded and then left for the forge. He stood for a moment, in the doorway of her tent, watching her leave.

...

The day had been spent training with an old friend and former member of the Band of the Noble Rat, Darth. He was a mighty Arcane Warrior in the Band, and had decided to settle down in Venzor, as their sheriff. A reformed alcoholic and prone to other excesses, he wielded a mighty bone glaive, carved from the remains of a fallen Black Dragon. It had seemed like an eternity since they had last shared drinks in the Wanton Harper, Darth preferring tea as it kept him from falling back into his previous addiction, but there he had agreed to train Zorubaash in the ways of powerful, two-handed weapons. Zorubaash had resolved to wield his people's pride with more surety and lethal effectiveness, seeking the counsel of his old friend. Darth had given him a wry smile, over his cup of tea, that night. "So you finally found your home, huh Gore?" he had said. Despite his protests that Venzor had become his home before the Forgeborn, and the Rats his family, long before that, Zorubaash couldn't deny the wisdom in Darth's words. He silenced the young chieftain with a simple statement, "Uh-uh, brother. Home is where your heart rests, and even with us, you never really rested." He gave a knowing wink to the chieftain, and they both laughed, heartily, recalling the many nights Kleatus had slept during his watch or some unseen horror had surprised them.

After their long sparring sessions and moments of instruction, the next day, both warriors wiped the sweat and dust off their taught bodies and rubbed the soreness out of their well-worked and more than slightly abused muscles. Zorubaash offered the use of his steam hut to get the rest of the soreness and fatigue out of their bodies, that night. Darth had readily accepted, and as they lounged in the hut, breathing in the steam that had been sweetened by a mixture of medicinal herbs and local flowers that one of the newest members, Inassasir, had gathered, they shared stories and jokes. Darth shared with him more about the attack on the Hall, the attempts on Abyth's life, and the resulting aftermath of it all. He thanked Zorubaash for helping solve the mystery of the attacks. Even if all they did was discover the ruined corpse of a hag and evidence of Syrdar's handiwork, at least it gave him something to look out for and kept the guards on their toes.

Zorubaash apologized to his friend for not being there to stand beside him in times of trouble, and Darth held up a hand as he reassured, "We handled ourselves well, given the situation, and y'all are back now. Syrdar should be terrified." Zorubaash frowned slightly and said, "I doubt it. From what the Bear showed me, we are merely an amusement for him. His aims are much larger, I suspect, and even the ruination of my people is only a small part, let alone these 'pranks'. From what you've told me, it seems like he's more interested in Spellbook's tower and what it might contain, though for what purpose, I cannot understand." At this, Darth laughed out loud, "Ha! You kidding, brother?! If he got his hands on that gem in there, he'd have an immense well of power to draw on. Good thing Spellbook is a clever little beastie." Zorubaash thought about Spellbook teleporting the tower directly above the attacking demons, and he began to roar with laughter as well. He wished he could have been there to see the looks on their faces as the tower crushed them.

Darth then motioned to Lurog's Pride, lying next to the doorway, "That's a pretty nice blade you got there. You say it lights on fire? That's vicious!" Zorubaash glanced over to it and replied, "Aye, it is a fine blade, crafted by Mazoga's grandmother, the Forgemaster before her. It is indeed the embodiment of my people." Darth then smirked and asked, "Not the only embodiment, I'd wager. You ever take that Forgemaster to bed, yet?" Zorubaash's became a little sullen at his words. "No…we have not come to understand one another, yet. At least, not that I've seen. It is growing, but she is bound by her traditions and hard to read, most times." "Bit of a cold fish, eh?" smirked Darth. "You should bring her into this hut and warm her up." Zorubaash blinked in surprise, as he hadn't thought of that, then told Darth that she had been present during his vision quest, along with Hagurth. At that revelation, Darth sat upright and exclaimed, "Gore! You had two beauties in your hut and you didn't rut their brains out?!" Zorubaash growled at him, "It was a ceremony, fool! I would never…" Darth interrupted him, seeking to goad the mighty chieftain, again, "But you thought about it, right? Riiiiiiight?" Zorubaash blushed a deep auburn, but didn't say anything. Seeing his reaction, Darth pounced, "Ha! You dog! You'd have them both, if you had half the chance." He gave a pointed wink, and Zorubaash couldn't bring himself to look him in the eyes, mumbling, "It would not…be disagreeable." Darth leaned back and roared with laughter. "Hoo! Listen to you, being all proper, like some blushing prince. Why, I remember when you took Nellothein to bed…Hells! I think the whole Band does!" Zorubaash's eyes flashed with pain at the mention of his deceased lover, and scowled at the belligerent friend. Darth winced and sat back up. "Aw, Gore! I'm sorry, brother. I know she was special to you. She was a good friend to all of us, as well." Zorubaash simply fell back into his memories, and shared with his old friend something he hadn't told anyone, "I had asked her if she wanted children…with me. Then she was killed." At this, Darth slumped his shoulders and spoke softly, "Gore, I…I'm so sorry. You guys didn't deserve what happened in there, any of it."

For a while, neither spoke to the other. They simply stared at the floor like a couple of sullen pups. Darth picked up the ladle and began to pour more water on the rocks, refreshing the steam within the hut. As he set it down, he placed both hands on his knees and said, "That doesn't have to be the end of it, Gore." Zorubaash looked up from the floor, with a puzzled expression. Darth continued, "I know you lost your chance to start a family with Nellothein, but you've got a chance here, and I'm not just talking about the Forgeborn, as a people. By tradition, Mazoga is your wife. Nothing says she can't be the mother of your pups, too, is there? And then there's another who can't take her eyes off you." Zorubaash's only furrowed his brow in confusion, which caused Darth to perk up. "You mean you haven't noticed all the glances Hagurth has been giving you?!" Zorubaash didn't say anything, he only stared, dumbfounded. "Gore! She worships you! I've never seen anyone more interested in your stories. She's even been asking me for stories about you and about things you like." He stopped and thought for a moment, resting his chin on a fist. "Come to think of it, she always seemed pretty jealous whenever I would mention Nellothein." Gore started to growl, but Darth only barked, "Oh come off it! I didn't mean any disrespect." Zorubaash simply snorted, in a gruff acknowledgement of the fact. "All I'm saying is, 'Think about it.' You've still got a chance, and you love them, don't you?" Zorubaash couldn't deny his friend's observation, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything out loud. He simply nodded his affirmation.

They finished their steam bath, dousing the stones and then refreshing themselves with the waterskin, outside. They gathered their things, with some light joking and kind words. Before he left, Darth slugged Zorubaash in the arm, and smiled. "See ya soon. Gotta drill more skill into that dumb head o' yers." Zorubaash swiped at him, playfully, as Darth ducked away. He made to leave, but then pivoted, suddenly. "Hey! Let me know if you ever manage to start your brood, so I can start calling you 'Papa Gore'." He grinned, mischievously and added, "But first you'd have to convince them to sleep with your ugly ass." Zorubaash moved to punch him, but Darth had already started sprinting back to the Hall, cackling the whole way. Zorubaash began to chuckle and then turned towards Mazoga's tent, with a sigh.

...

As Zorubaash approached Mazoga's tent, Darth's words came back to him, and he stood there, wondering to himself, "Could I start a family with Mazoga? How would it all work, with her duties as Forgemaster and their traditions? What of Hagurth? Should he take her as a second wife?" Darth had made it clear that Hagurth was infatuated with him, but he needed to know that she also wanted more than just the stories of his adventures and that she felt something deeper than just childlike affection for him. He shook his head once, to scatter the thoughts, moved aside the flap, and entered the tent. He was alone, within. Mazoga had not finished her work, so he began to check his gear and prepare for the night.

As he sat on the bed, examining Lurog's Pride, Mazoga entered. He looked up at her and simply smiled. He did have feelings for her, beyond mere duty to his people. To him, she embodied the stoic beauty of his people. She carried such a heavy burden on her shoulders, and he desired to lift some of that burden, not because he should and not because he pitied her. He knew she was strong and could carry the burden to her dying day. No, he wanted to lift a portion of that burden, like peeling back another layer of clothing. He desired it, because he desired to be closer to her. She crossed to the bowl, silently, while he finished checking the sword and returned it to the sheath, laying it at the foot of the bed with practiced reverence.

When he looked up, again, she hadn't moved. She simply stood before the bowl, staring into the mirror of water. He rose and stood behind her, breathing softly. She didn't turn to him but simply asked, "Will my Chief be taking me, tonight?" He thought for a moment and then replied, "Do you desire children, Mazoga?" She still did not turn and only stated, "The Forgeborn are my children, and I tend to their needs." Disappointment crossed his face, for a moment, but he decided to press forward. "I mean your own children, birthed of your own flesh and the love of your mate, not just your heart." She simply replied, "If my Chief wills." At this, he frowned, though she could not see. "I did not state my will. I asked your desires, beyond your compulsion of duty. I know what my Forgemaster desires. I am asking what Mazoga desires." She did not speak, as if a war was raging within her mind.

As neither spoke, he decided to press a little further. He reached down and gently undid the leather straps that held the apron about her waist. She didn't move to stop him or pull away, so he continued. He lifted the loop off her unmoving neck and over her braided hair. He did not drop the apron upon the floor, but folded it, as he had seen her do before, and set it to the side. She did not move. He returned to his place and undid the fastener for her long, sleeveless tunic at the sides. He began to slide it off of her frame, and she obliged him. He folded it, much like the apron, and then returned. Still, she did not move. He undid the wrapping around her chest, and he thought that he heard a gentle sigh from Mazoga, but she did not move. He unbound her chest, and from his vantage point above her, he could see those enticing breasts rest freely from her shoulders. For a moment, his gaze only lingered, and he could see them rise and fall with each breath. Had she begun to breathe more rapidly? Next, he moved to the loin cloth, at her waist. He undid the leather thong, and as his hand brushed her hips, he thought he had felt a shiver. He let the front of the cloth fall from between her firm legs, pulling it up behind and along her smooth buttocks. At this, he heard a slight gasp, and smiled to himself.

She simply stood there, breathing, and his sharp senses noticed that she had indeed begun to take deeper breaths. Were these breaths of apprehension or anticipation? He had to know, so he reached beyond her, to the basin and wash cloth, and began to wipe away the sweat and soot upon her body. She flinched, slightly, as the cool, damp cloth touched her skin, but then relaxed. He wiped her gently, admiring how the cloth dissolved away the muting grime to reveal the verdant flesh along her neck and shoulders, then down her arms and flanks. As he passed the cloth across her waist and over her buttocks, he came dangerously close to losing himself. "Damn the soot and sweat!" he thought. He burned to embrace her, even while dirtied by a day's work. He breathed, deeply, to calm himself, and as he sighed out a steady breath, her cheeks tightened. He thought he heard her take in a sharp breath, through her nose. He then remembered where he was stooped and had to press on, before he really did lose all his senses.

He reached her feet and gripped her ankle, to lift her foot and wash her sole, but her legs were rigid and would not yield. His grip became gentler, and he simply said, "Please." She shifted her weight to the other leg and allowed him to raise her foot. He began to wash away the dirt. He heard a stifled whimper and wondered if she was ticklish, as he smiled, wolfishly. He finished wiping her foot, setting it down with care, so as not to shift her balance too suddenly, and then proceeded to the other. When he finished, he did not stand. He simply stayed, kneeling before his Forgemaster, his tribal wife, waiting to see if she would at last respond. She then turned, and he looked up from her feet. She was in full view, and he was speechless before her simple grandeur. She looked down upon him, and he could see that her cheeks were slightly flush. She simply asked, "Will my Chief finish his work?"

He rose, transfixed by her gaze, rinsed out the cloth in the basin, and stood before her, again. He wiped her stoic brow and traced the edges of her cheekbones with a tenderness he didn't know he possessed. He passed the cloth over her gently closed eyes and down her unbent nose, whose nostrils were beginning to flare. Past the thin yet delicate lips, he lingered under her chin, his gaze resting upon the mark. If he could, he would wipe it away as well. He caressed her neck with the cloth and longed to grip her head with his free hand and lock his tusks with hers, but he would finish his work, first. As his hand passed along her collar bones, he saw her chest rise with a deep breath and her breasts were on full display before him, as if she was presenting them to him.

He breathed deeply to steady himself and continue his work, wiping the cloth over her ample bosoms, along their curves like the twin moons above the camp, and between their inviting crevice. Her breathing began to increase in pace as he wiped away the sweat under her chest and down her toned stomach. Passing her navel that seemed more enticing that a goblet of the finest mead, he knelt down to wash her waist and abdomen, tracing those delicate lines and curves. He passed the cloth between her legs, and she opened them to welcome it, with an audible sigh. He was warring with himself, at this point, as desire surged within him. He bent the raging passion to his own will and passed the cloth along her inner thighs, returning to their apex and drawing it down past her knees and over her feet.

He was about to stand and rinse the wash cloth, when he felt two hands running their fingers along his temples and through his sable mane. He looked up at Mazoga and noticed that her face was fully flush at this point, and she almost seemed to pant, holding his great head in her hands. She parted her lips to ask, "Will my Chief be…" He didn't wait, anymore. He stopped her mouth with his own and took her, that night, like a returning champion and a longing husband.

He almost did not know where to begin. His arms had been empty for so long, but his eyes had beheld her brazen figure every night. She was unashamed of her nakedness before her chieftain, unlike the “civilized” women he had bedded in his adventures. They may have appeared civilized in public, but his ferocity and savagery awoke carnal desires within all of them. They would play the fainting maiden or the bashful waif, but once he began to ravish them, they forgot their propriety and threw themselves into the wild lusts of their shackled libidos. This was different, however. She was different. He had never been with an orc female in his life. Separated from his clan before even attempting the brutal courting rituals of his former people, he had never known the unbridled passions of an orcess in heat. She burned as much as he did. Their flesh almost caught fire with a shared passion. She may have seemed a cold fish to others, through the veil of her solemn duties to the Forgeborn, but she was anything but frigid, now. Her passion consumed him, and he wondered, briefly, if this was what the other women had felt when he had released them of their own, civilized bonds with his untempered lust.

As they locked their tusks in a kiss that sent fire coursing through his veins, his hands did not waste their time. They dove for her firm buttocks, his palms cupping the toned flesh, while his fingers began to creep into their crevice. He could tell that she burned for him, as her thighs were already slick with excitement and he breathed deeply of her lusty musk. As his hands groped and explored her backside, she pulled back from their kiss, with a gasp of pleasure. Her greying hair fell back from the inviting mounds of her full breasts, and she presented her erect nipples to his frenzied gaze. He devoured them with a hunger beyond starvation, taking one and then the other into his ravening maw. He flicked his furious tongue over each nipple, like he was licking over-ripe berries in the forest, savoring their flavor and the sensation they left on his palate.

She gasped and moaned…no. It was not a moan, but a low roar, that emanated from her parting lips. Her forge-hardened hands cupped the sides of his great head, as her fingers wove their way into his raven-black mane. She clenched her fingers and gripped him like a vice. If this was how she held the blades she forged and the hammer she wielded to forge them, then he felt he would be envious of her attentions. She wrenched his head backward, and as his thirsting mouth left her luscious melons, slick with his saliva and her sweet, earthy sweat, he roared in frustration and pleasure. She hushed his roar with a kiss. For her, a kiss was only lip deep, but he had learned in his travels that the tongue could be a welcome partner in such token gestures. He thrust his into her mouth and wrapped it around hers, coaxing it forward in a wet embrace. Her eyes sprang open, in surprise, and they locked with his, full of desire, and then she rose to his challenge, wrestling together inside their locked lips.

She did not desire his tongue in her mouth for long, however. His burning, steel rod had been pulsing between her slick thighs this whole time, and she demanded satisfaction. She longed to feel that avenging tongue against the opening of her forge, and she pressed his head downward, as she leaned back upon the bed. As his lips caressed her toned belly and explored the ripples of her musculature, she continued to growl with lust, her hands pressing his head lower. His hands released their grasp upon her tensed buttocks, tracing over her upper thighs and spreading them wide as his mouth drew ever nearer. His thumbs teased her aching slit, and she gasped, drawing her legs wider for him. His mouth reached her navel, and he drank deeply of the shallow goblet, causing her to writhe with desire. She grew tired of his teasing, however, and pressed his head down harder. He gave no resistance, however, as he reveled in her forceful passion.

He reached her intended destination, and again he breathed deeply of the sweet musk, emanating from her drenched and quivering slit. He exhaled, and the burning breath sent an uncontrolled spasm along her body. He grinned with lust and dove into the feast, taking her fully into his mouth. Her hands clenched his hair, again, and it spurred him on, as he began lapping up the sweet juices flowing from her bountiful fountain. The earthy sweetness filled his senses, like an intoxicating wine, and she writhed, grinding her hips against his tusks, as her firm hands held his head in place, without any resistance. His hands crept up her quivering legs and along her convulsing stomach, to take hold of the inviting fruit perched upon her heaving chest and flicking the delicate berries upon them with his rough fingers. She panted and groaned, as he partook of her bountiful feast, letting her feel the ravening needs of her chieftain. She had lost count of the orgasms that had wracked her glistening body, but still she was not satisfied, and neither was he.

She loosened her grip upon his mane and simply caressed his temples, coaxing him from the feasting. He looked up at her, his eyes still full of desire, and she breathed through labored panting, “Please, my Chief.” He rose like a mighty bear, his skin glistening from their combined sweat and his chin dripping with her sweet nectar. He growled, hungrily, and forced her further upon the bed, as he made ready to mount her. She began to roll over, anticipating the way that a Forgeborn would take his mate, but he stopped her legs, with his hands tracing along her inner thighs and grasping her hips.

He drew them towards him as he stood at the foot of the bed, his rod twitching with lust. He was in control now, and he would satisfy them both…after a little more teasing. He lifted her hips, dragging her aching lips along the length of his burning steel, slowly. She began to pant faster, anticipating the sensation as he would enter her, but he stopped, with his head twitching at her opening. She looked at him in alarm and with longing in her eyes. Again, she said, “Please, my Chief.” A wicked smile crossed his face, as he chided her, “That is not my name.” He began to lower her hips back along his length, and she almost whimpered. He rested her lips at the base of his shaft, and she tried to rock them against it and the warm sack below. He tightened his grip, menacingly, and she stopped, as he growled, “What is my name?” She looked at him, puzzled and full of unanswered desire. She breathed in, and he began to draw her slit back up, along the length of his raging cock. She bit her lips, still stifling her pleading whimpers. As he reached the apex, again, he asked, “What is my name, Mazoga?” Her voice caught in her throat, as her sense of duty and the overwhelming lust within her warred, feverishly. She hesitated, in her indecision. As he began to lower her hips, again, she cried out, “Zorubaash! Zorubaash, my…” He plunged his raging member deep within her, and her words were replaced with a roar, as he thrust his sword to the hilt, pressing her hips against his.

She gripped his wrists, as he continued to hammer within her forge and ecstasy took her. They roared and cried out to one another, as their fires grew to a fevered inferno. Again and again, he drew her to him, as he thrust his hips, hungrily, working his burning steel within her. He felt every ridge and every ripple of her soft flesh, as she clenched around him. The slapping of their flesh against each other was drowned out by the ferocity of their cries, and as she reached her climax, she arched her back and cried out, “Please, Zorubaash, give me your seed! Fill my forge with your fire!” He reached his limit, and thrust deep within her, as he erupted, filling her with molten seed. He roared over her, like a conquering champion, and she joined him.

His roaring was replaced with panting, as his gaze fell over her quaking body, slick with the sweat of their passion. His eyes beheld her splendor. He appreciated the waves of bliss rippling over her and filling her face with warmth and contentment. He let her hips rest upon the bed, as he slipped out of her, gradually, and his hands continued to caress her toned and glistening flesh. He crawled upon the bed and lay beside her, letting her bask in the afterglow, while he continued to feast on her bare beauty. She calmed her breathing, and turned her head towards him, with a warm smile upon her face. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a time, enjoying one another’s company. He laid back, and stared at the ceiling of the tent, enjoying the moment and catching his own breath. Then he felt her hands slide over his midsection. As one hand caressed his chest, another wandered lower, finding his softened flesh. She began to fondle him, coaxing fire back into his steel. He lifted his head as she climbed atop him and guided the tip of his rod to her wanting lips. She looked at him, with renewed hunger and asked, teasingly, “Is my Chief done?” He was not done, and they did not sleep much, that night, or many nights afterwards...


	4. A Vision and a Chieftain, Pt. 2

He felt her rise, in the moments before the dawn, as she always had. He wanted to draw her back into his arms and relive a brief moment of the night they had shared, but he knew the day was for her duties, and he would not stand in his Forgemaster's way. As she prepared for the day, he rose and sat at the edge of the bed, simply watching her dress and braid her hair. His instincts had been accurate, as always. It had exhilarated them both to run their fingers through each other's' manes, gripping tight, as their passions carried through their mating and well into the night.

He finally spoke, saying, "You never did answer my question, last night." She halted a moment before continuing with her preparations, as she replied, "If my…" She stopped herself from a force of habit, and spoke more openly, "If I am to have children, I would have yours, my Chief." He thought for a moment, considering how such an admission must have been a labor in itself, before saying, "I do not seek to impose my will upon you, Mazoga. If you would have me, as a mate, I would be honored to sire your children, just as I am proud of our people. I would have you desire me, as much as I do you, but I understand your duty, more and more each day. If you had to choose between our people and their chieftain, I know you would choose them. I hope to never make you choose between us. I seek only to honor you, my wife, and care for our people, but the more I treasure them, the more I find myself desiring you, as well."

As he hung his head in thought, he felt those same hands cradle his jaw and lift his gaze to hers. They stared at one another, briefly, before she spoke, saying, "So long as my Chief carries his people in his heart, I will always be his to command and to love." She leaned in to kiss him, but stopped short. He saw shock in her eyes, and asked, "What is it? What is wrong?" She pulled back, and examined his face. "My Chief! That mark…when was my Chief marked, thus?!" He rose from the bed, swiftly, and crossed to the basin, peering into the mirror of water. There, upon his chin, still lay the mark from the Black Root, a dark, inverted triangle, from lip to chin. "This mark has not left me, since the vision quest," he replied, still examining it in the reflection. He noticed that a single, red, tapered line pierced through the length of the triangle, like a plunging blade. Turning to point this out to Mazoga, he saw that she had already departed, and he had been left there, wondering what it could mean.

He donned his gear, quickly, and made to pursue her, when Hagurth and two other warriors stopped him, just outside the door. "Let me pass! I must speak with the Forgemaster," he exclaimed. The warriors began to let him pass, but Hagurth spoke up. "The Forgemaster wishes you to remain in her tent," she explained. He frowned, demanding, "Why?!" She held up her hand, with some temerity. "The Forgemaster only said that she must consult the forge and that you are to remain." He breathed deep and took in all that his senses could perceive. The two warriors seemed conflicted, as their Forgemaster had given an order but their chieftain demanded passage. He noticed that others in the camp had begun to stir and take notice of the situation. Then he looked to Hagurth, and his senses assailed him with information. Her gaze held pain, confusion, and a plea. He knew then that if he asked again, she would not bar his path, but to do so would force her to choose a side between the Forgemaster and her chieftain. He recalled the words he had spoken to Mazoga, as a promise, and relented. He would not make his people choose. He would stand with the Forgemaster, even if that meant staying away.

After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke to her. "You honor me, as you honor the Forgemaster. I will abide by her wishes, as I seek to honor my people, as well." A weight seemed to be lifted instantly from her shoulders, as relief filled her countenance, but still there lingered a look of worry. Before he turned to return, he said, "Please send a messenger to the Rats, explaining that I will be residing here, for as long as the Forgemaster wishes. She is my voice, as my people are my heart. I will not dishonor my clan by defying the Forgemaster." She stood more erect and gave a crisp salute to her chieftain, before departing at a quick trot. He noticed the thankful smile upon her face and had returned it in kind.

He looked to the two warriors, who still seemed a bit unsure about the situation they had been left in, and clapped one on the shoulder, playfully. "Well, it seems like your chieftain will be resting for the day," he said, cheerfully. The two seemed to relax a little, and one even chuckled. He then turned and entered the tent, while the warriors placed themselves on either side of the doorway.

Inside the Forgemaster's tent, Zorubaash was anything but cheerful. A thousand questions flooded his mind. What had he done? What did the symbol mean? Why would Mazoga not see him? Why had she sent Hagurth and warriors to bar his path? What was to come next? He paced the floor, like a caged beast, warring with his worries and doubts. Finally, he took deep breaths and sought to calm the conflict within him. Keeping the ceremonial blade at his back and his breeches on his person, he doffed the rest of his gear, and set Lurog's Pride upon the bed. He picked up the shaman's bag and began to search for the smudge bowl and a calming bundle of cedar and herbs. He sat on the floor of the tent, with his back to the bed, and prepared the implements for his meditation. As the sweet smoke rose about him and filled his nostrils, he pressed all doubts from his mind and sought to find answers from within. He did not find much, at first, but a calm faith began to fill the void of his doubt. He would trust in the Forgemaster and his people. He would trust in Mazoga's wisdom and that of the Bear, who had led him here.

Days passed, without any word from Mazoga. Only Hagurth or other women of the tribe would visit him, bringing food, water, and whatever news they had. Hagurth had explained that the Rats seemed a bit distressed, mentioning that several had come to the camp, wishing to speak with him. All of them had been turned away, per the Forgemaster's instructions, but the Forgeborn had caught a rather cantankerous Kleatus, trying to sneak into the camp, on a few occasions. After a while, he seemed to have relented, and the incidents had been kept as quiet as possible, so as not to worry the clan. Despite their efforts, however, the Forgeborn had taken note that their chieftain was absent and that the Rats seemed worried. He sent messages with Hagurth, to reassure them that he was well and that there was no need to worry, but their concern did add to his own. Still, he chose to wait and trust in the Forgemaster.

Eventually, evening of the third night fell upon the camp, and two smiths entered the tent, accompanied by Hagurth and Mazoga. He rose quickly, as he saw the Forgemaster enter, and made to speak, but her raised hand silenced him. "My Chief will be made ready and then come to the forge," she explained. Her stoic demeanor had returned, and he only nodded his understanding. She turned and departed, and he was left there with the smiths, Hagurth, and his questions. They motioned for him to remove his breeches and the ceremonial blade, while they produced bowls of water and wash cloths to bathe him. He did not resist, standing as instructed, and allowed them to proceed, unhindered.

After the washing him, they shaved his chin to reveal the mark, and seemed to be in awe of it. Then they began applying a heavy grease on his upper body and legs. It seemed like an ointment Mazoga had showed him, once, stating that the smiths used it for their burns. This didn't fill him with much comfort, as the two women were now applying it to his entire body, but he did not resist them. Finally, they finished applying the grease and Hagurth motioned for him to exit the tent. He turned to pick up Lurog's Pride, but one of the smiths had already done so, cradling it in a bundle of furs, much like he'd seen Mazoga do the night he had yelled at her. She indicated that he was to go first and carry his ceremonial blade, so he retrieved it and ducked below the flap, stepping into the night air.

Outside the Forgemaster's tent, the entire camp had lined up along a path that led to the forge. Scattered torchlight revealed that every eye was upon him and that each person held something in their hands. He did not know what to expect, but he chose to believe in his people, and so he followed Hagurth along the path. As he passed the first pair or Forgeborn, flanking the path, they tossed the contents of their hands upon the chieftain's great back. A cloud of white ash crashed against his greased flesh, and stuck fast, as lighter tendrils crested his shoulders and eventually settled. He looked again along the path, and noted that all of his people carried a handful of that white ash. More questions swirled through his mind, but still he pressed on, seeking the Forgemaster. Handfuls of white ash began to pummel him, as he continued, creating a haze of finer particles that danced in the torchlight. Though the assaults were sudden, he did not sense any mania or malice. In fact, he noticed the faces of the children and some of the warriors seemed elated. He set his jaw in solemn ceremony, and proceeded forward, eventually arriving at the forge tent.

At last his eyes beheld his Forgemaster, and affection rose within him, filling his limbs with greater vigor. The ash had stopped flying and the swirling clouds began to settle, as he felt his people gather together behind him. The smith carrying Lurog's Pride stepped forward and presented it to the Forgemaster, with great reverence. Mazoga unwrapped the blade and inspected it, as she had before. Satisfied that it was in good condition, she motioned to the smith to place the blade on some sort of altar that had been set up within the doorway of the forge. Mazoga then turned to him and motioned him forward. Now covered from neck to toe with white ash, he advanced and stood in the place she indicated, turning to face his people. He glanced over to her, and she nodded her approval. She then turned back to the Forgeborn and addressed her people.

"In the time of my grandmother, Lurog rose as a mighty chieftain of the Forgeborn. In his honor, she crafted a blade that held the pride of his people," she proclaimed aloud, and waved to the blade upon the altar. Then her face darkened and she continued, "As his pride grew, his heart turned from his people, and my grandmother then crafted his Shame, filled with the darkness of his corrupt heart. For the good of her people, the Forgemaster betrayed the chieftain and shamed the clan, for she knew it would be better for us to live in shame than under the rule of one who would corrupt our hearts. She was burned for her betrayal, by a people in mourning, and the clan was scattered in their shame." Her demeanor became one of solemnity, as she told the story, "For generations, the Forgeborn lived in their shame, dreaming of the day that a great warrior would return their pride and gather the clan as chieftain." She then turned to him, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a faint smile, before she continued, "Finally, a wanderer arrived with the strength to fulfill our desires. He laid Lurog's Shame to rest, along with the tormented soul of our cursed chieftain, claiming his Pride and returning it to the clan. Evil has marked his passing and sought to keep him from us, but he has returned again, with our Pride. He has passed through fire and blood, through smoke and spirit, to return to his people. I have tested his resolve and known his heart. It beats for us, his people."

She reached up a hand and wiped away the ash upon his chin, revealing the mark, as she spoke, "He has taken our shame upon himself and broken it." Murmurs and excited whispers rippled through the crowd gathered around them. "We gather before our chieftain, as his blades for battle and the hands that forge them." At this, the other smiths each drew a blade and cut their chins, mimicking the split triangle on his own. Each held up their other hand to catch the blood and then approached him. One by one, they placed their hand upon him, in different places about his body, leaving a bloody hand print upon the white ash. As he looked out upon the crowd, he saw others do the same and then step forward to add their marks to his body. Once they had all finished, he stood there, covered in their blood and not an inch of ash remained untouched.

Mazoga approached him, and motioned for the ceremonial blade in his hand. Still dumbfounded, he handed it to her, and she drew it down her mark, splitting her chin. She caught the blood and then reached up to place her hand over his heart, as she said, "With the blood of the forge, flowing from the heart of your people, we pass this blade to you." She then drew the ceremonial blade across his arm, as she had done with Wrona. He looked upon her in wonder and gratitude, replying with what was in his heart, "And I carry it, with honor."

...

After the ceremony, the great sword, a symbol of his people's pride and strength, was returned to Zorubaash, and he carried it with him. He had been told to return to Mazoga's tent and await his Forgemaster, which he dutifully obeyed. Once inside the tent, however, the gravity of what had happened began to wash over him and he sat, heavily, on the foot of her bed. Placing the blade upon his lap, he unwrapped it and stared for a time, asking, "What would you have me do? What would my people have of their chieftain." Another voice spoke up, "Well, I reckon they'd have ya stop talking to yer swords, Gore-buddy." His eyes shot to the corner of the tent, where he heard the disembodied voice, saying, "I know that voice." He smiled as his fellow Rat, Kleatus, stepped out of the shadows, with a big, hick grin on his face. Zorubaash chastised his friend, playfully, "It isn't wise to sneak past my people. Maybe I should catch a Rat and hang him by his tail?" At that, he felt a sharp nip on his hand, and looked down, at the daring attacker. There sat Skribbles, glaring at him. Her children were also roaming about the bed, curiously, and Zorubaash laughed loudly, stating, "I do not mean you, oh queen of rats. You are too noble for a humble chieftain like me to lay hands upon you." At this, the matron rat perked up and placed her front paws upon his massive hand. He chuckled, warmly and began to pet her tiny head, gently. Having "said" her peace, she scampered off to pick a fight with one of her ilk, which made both Zorubaash and Kleatus laugh. "Now you go easy on 'im, Skribs! You know he's the pretty one," chided Kleatus. Zorubaash wrapped the blade and lay it beside the bed, then turned to his friend. "It is good to finally see you, again, brother, but I do not think the warriors will be too happy, if they do find you," reminded Zorubaash, warmly. The goofy Water Elf just struck a haughty pose, and laughed, "Ha! They'd have to see me first, and then they'd have to catch me!" He began a comical pantomime of dodging invisible foes and hiding around the tent. Zorubaash beamed at his friend and tried hard not to mock him with his laughter, too much.

Eventually, Kleatus calmed down, and sat upon the bed, with a sigh. Zorubaash took a seat, next to his fellow Rat. "Gore-buddy, ya got sumthin pretty special, here. Don' fuck it up," Kleatus said, with a classic double-wink. Despite his friend's joking, Zorubaash's face became solemn, replying, "I am trying my best, my brother. I know the ceremony, tonight, meant a great deal. I just hope that I am strong enough to be the chieftain they need." At this, Kleatus jumped up, with another laugh. "Are you kiddin'?! I seen what you did to all those monsters we faced. We all did! Why I bet you coulda took ol' Zanny with yer bare hands, if ya had a mind to." Zorubaash's spirits did not rise so easily, this time. He looked at his hands, solemnly, and replied, "I am indeed strong, but raw strength alone won't lead my people into prosperity. I am sometimes afraid that I lack the other things my people will need." At this, Kleatus stopped prancing around the room and simply stood in front of his friend. "Well that's what you've got us for, ol' buddy! That, and I bet that there Forgemaster o' yers would help. I know she seems a bit cold, but I seen her look at you. She likes ya, in a way. Reckon you'll need to warm her up a bit more to get her good an' helpful, though." He double-winked, again, and Zorubaash cracked a warm smile, as he remembered the heated night he had shared with Mazoga. He would be lying to himself, if he did not admit that it was enjoyable and that he wanted to continue warming her up, as Kleatus had said.

Suddenly, the rats upon the bed began squeaking nervously, and Kleatus perked up. "Uh-oh! Time to run. See ya, Gore-buddy. Jus' remember: warm her up, uh, fill me in on the details - well, y'know, you can probably skip that part - watch out for snakes, an' don't fuck up," sputtered Kleatus, as he gathered the rats from the bed, placing them in his carry sack, and headed for a loose flap at the back of the tent. "Oh! And I wasn't here," he finished, with another double-wink, and dashed under the flap. Zorubaash just let out an amused chuckle, as Mazoga entered the tent. "Is my Chief amused?" she puzzled. He caught himself, quickly, and replied, "I was simply thinking about what my friend, Kleatus, would say, if he were here to see me." He spread his arms wide to indicate the ash and blood that still covered him. "I am actually surprised that your friend did not say anything about your appearance," she said, knowingly, and Zorubaash's clumsy smile left him, abruptly. "He strikes me as someone who does not see the value of ceremony, unlike my Chief." Zorubaash gave a slight chuckle at her insight and replied, "No, he places more value in his friends and his rats than in traditions and ceremonies." She stepped past the doorway, in her collected manner, asking, "What does my Chief value?" He rose to his feet and simply stood before her, saying, "I value my people and the hands that forge them." He took her hands in his, and for once, she did not resist, as he continued, "I value the will of the forge and the wisdom of the Bear." She nodded her approval and passed by him, towards the basin.

She began to disrobe and bathe, as was her routine, while he simply stood there, deep in thought. Eventually, he spoke up, "I know that I received a great honor, tonight, more than I probably yet realize. I only ask, 'Why?' Why me? Why now? Why did you keep me here, these past days?" She finished washing and motioned for him to stand before her, and he obliged. She looked up at him, and began to wash the blood and ash from his body, as she spoke, "Is my Chief upset?" He simply replied, "No." She continued, "Is my Chief afraid?" He sighed and then replied, "I am." As she continued to wash, she asked, "What does my Chief fear?" He considered his words, carefully weighing them against his own heart, and then replied, "I fear for my people. I fear that I would shame them in some way. I fear that I would not lead them as a chieftain should." She simply continued, "Fear can be good. It keeps a leader mindful of his people. It shines his valor, when he conquers it. It teaches wisdom, when tempered by the Forge. Never let it bind you." Her words washed over him, just as her hands continued their work. She had moved to his back and had begun to remove his loin cloth. He didn't flinch or even turn. He simply stood and marveled out loud, "Has a chieftain ever been so blessed to have such a wise Forgemaster?"

She finished washing him, and he turned to face her. "What would my Forgemaster have me do?" he finally asked. She put down the cloth, stood before him, and replied, "Be my Chief. Be Zorubaash Forgeborn, wielder of his people and father of many children." It might be said that he took her that night, but Zorubaash would admit that she took him, then. Though the water had washed away the grim paste of ash and blood, the sent was still upon him, and it made her hunger. He had proven himself as a conqueror in battle and in bed, but she now hungered to claim him, as well. She was not a young Orcess, anymore, but she was still Forgeborn. Decades at the forge and wandering the land with her people had made her hard and strong. She had not lost her fire, over the years, but this chieftain stoked an inferno within her. The earthy fragrance of the ash from the forge and the sweet aroma of blood filled her nostrils, and her pupils widened with desire.

She hefted the mighty branch that was his arm, and looked upon the wound she had made with the blade, during the ceremony. He didn’t resist her, he only looked on in solemn wonder at the mighty sage of his people. She hungered for him, for his flesh, his blood, and his strength to fill her. She drew closer to the wound and licked it, hungrily, coaxing a welt of blood with her rough tongue. She winced, slightly, as the wound upon her chin also opened a little, but she did not care. She tasted his blood and she would soon taste his fire.

Tenderness then swam through her passion, and calmed the hunger for a moment. He had taken the shame of her people, strangers to this wanderer, upon himself and broke it at the Forge. True, he had done it, at first, as a conqueror, a hunter desiring a trophy, but she had come to realize that he hungered for a people as much as they hungered for a chieftain. She knew his stories, the ones he had told her. She knew of his history and that of his former people. She knew how the hunt had called him away and while he had wandered after the Bear, his people, the Bloodfists, had fallen to corruption at the hands of their prideful Warchief. She marveled, in that moment, at how similar they were, the Forgeborn and their new chieftain. He had arrived as a wanderer, and returned, over and over, as a conqueror. With each return and over the time of his stays, he had grown, in their eyes and hers. He brought glory and trophies to his people, food for their hearts and fuel for the Forge. He had never returned to them, empty handed. Always, he returned, and he carried new victories with him.

He was such a strange person, to them. He was a pillar of strength and savagery, but his blade had been forged in the wilderness, without the guidance of the Forge. He had been trained amongst the mountains, but they had not tempered him. They were merely the steel in his blade, the biting edge of the mountain winds and glacier peaks shaped his steel, more than his own people. Then came the trials in a land not his own. She marveled, in that moment, at the many hunts from which he had claimed trophies. She had set foot within his room at the Hall of Noble Rats, laying eyes upon the heads, teeth, hide, claws, and crowns of his fallen enemies. She had seen the dragon’s skull he had dragged through the yawning, arcane doorway. He wrought destruction and carried victory upon his shoulders. That savagery had broken their shame, and then he had sent them to Venzor. They could not understand why, but then they had seen the strength of the Band of the Noble Rat and the tenacity of the people of Venzor. They had fought beside them to defend the Hall. They had tended to the wounded and treated the Forgeborn, orcs, as companions. They were more his people than the mountain clans had been. “Had he claimed them, as well?” she wondered to herself. What Orc could do this? What chieftain could command such loyalty, such kinship?

Her thoughts sent fire coursing through her veins, again, and she looked upon her chieftain, who was also looking at her, in curiosity. He was mighty, and she desired all of him. She could see desire swell within him, as well, and she bent down to take it within her hungering mouth. The tip was hot against her lips, and there was that winge of pain, as she parted her lips to take in his girth, causing the wound upon her chin to open, slightly. She let her tongue dance around his head, within her mouth, coaxing it like some exotic fruit to release its nectar. Her lips glided along his length, making it slick with her saliva.

He groaned under the assault of her mouth, and she felt his hands grip her hair. She did not stop. She could not stop. She had tasted him, and she wanted more. He did not seek to pull her away, nor would she be persuaded, regardless. She dove into the feast, using her mouth as an outlet for his burning fire. His sack slapped against her chin, aggravating the wound and fueling a passionate rage within her. Eventually, his grip on her hair tightened, and she could feel him swell and twitch within her mouth. He was about to pull away, but she hungered. She gripped his backside, while his buttocks clenched, and drew him in as he erupted, with a roar. White, hot seed burst within her mouth and cascaded along her throat, as she gulped it down, greedily.

She finished her meal, licking wet lips, as he was finally released from her grasp. He looked down upon her, kneeling before him like the priestess she was, offering service at the feet of some altar. His head swam with the pleasure of her supplication, and he almost offered thanks but stopped. Her eyes burned with hunger, and he felt a slight shiver run down his spine. She wasn't done, and tender words would not fit the hunger in those eyes. He growled, with a grim smile, as the realization washed over him. She would drain him, and he would relish it. She was almost predatory, staring up at larger prey but feeling no fear, only hunger. Here was more of the passion he had always desired from her. Here was fire. Here was fury, and though it almost terrified him, it excited him even more. He growled again, saying, "Come then."

She pounced up at him, locking her legs around his waist and sinking her tusks into his shoulder. He roared in pain and ecstasy, as she tackled him to the tent floor. Yes! This was a worthy hunt. It had been long and laborious for so long, but this prize, this beautiful, feral creature, was worth every agonizing moment leading up to this. He raked his nails across her back, as if struggling against a tigress. She withdrew her tusks, now slick with his blood, and roared at the assault. He gripped her long hair and pulled it tight, causing her to sit back upon him and arch her back. He lunged at the bountiful fruit at her chest, drinking deep of the sweet, salty nectar beading upon their firm flesh. He teased her nipples, biting them to arousal, and drank from the enticing crevice between her breasts. She struggled against his grip and the waves of lust he was sending through her body. She raised a fist and struck his shoulder, still weeping blood, like a hammer blow. He bellowed and loosened his grasp. She struck him to the floor, again, with both hands, pouncing upon his chest, biting one of his nipples in revenge. He roared, without malice. In truth, he'd laugh at the sport of this furious foreplay. He was relishing it, but this was as much a merging of their rage, as it was a merging of their flesh.

He didn't have long to ponder this fleeting thought, as soon her lips were upon his. She drank deep of his saliva and sought to coax his tongue from his mouth. It stunned him. She was full of surprises, this night, and he loved it. He sought to clutch her face and pull them deeper into the kiss, but she pinned his hands to the floor and pulled away, saying, "No! Tonight, I will have you. I am not some wilting flower. I am your queen. I am Forgeborn, and you will fill my forge with your fire." With that, she dug her knees into his shoulders, anchoring his arms and eliciting a winge of pain from the bite on his shoulder. He looked up at her, with rage in his eyes. He could topple her, if he desired. He had felled a dragon. He had broken shambling mounds and giants with his bare hands. But in that moment, his strength escaped him. She was...magnificent. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. Her breasts stuck out like rigid outcroppings under the cascade. Her muscled stomach rose and fell, in unison with her chest, like a furious ocean. Her limbs were like freshly quenched steel and seemed to shimmer with the sweat upon her. Her face was flanked by the dark current of her hair, a verdant visage amongst the tempest. Her tusks glistened with his crimson blood, which was now running down her chin, and framing the now broken mark upon it. A single drop fell upon his own mark, and he stared in wonder at her majesty. He could not throw her off. He was hers, this night, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

At the apex of her green steel trunks rested her fragrant womanhood, nestled within a sparse field of wiry, black hair. It was also captivating, intoxicating. Her musk filled his nostrils and stoked his fire. He desired her, fully. She noticed this desire and his wandering eyes. "You want this, chieftain?" she purred. "You desire to take my womanhood, this night?" Her tone was menacing, as if daring him to speak and threatening what would happen if he spoke. He gulped back the saliva in his mouth, licking the blood from his lip and tasting a mixture of his life and her passion. A thought then struck him, as they were locked in this grapple. "Was she in heat?", he wondered. The possibility enticed him, and he foolishly smiled. She snarled, gnashing her teeth. "You will worship my forge before you fill it," she snapped, and then dropped onto his grinning face. It was forceful, but he desired it all the more. Yes, he would worship at her altar, her forge. He would offer great supplication to his queen and mother of his people. He snuffled and licked, forcing his tongue inside her and exploring every nook and cranny, relishing in her aroma and the shivers he could feel quaking through her body. He teased and suckled every inch of flesh he could find with his lips and tongue, coaxing moans of pleasure and snarls of release from Mazoga. Eventually, she threw her head back, releasing his hands and cupping her breasts, as orgasm took her. He watched her arching, mad dance upon his face with such hunger, but he did not move to overturn her. This was her moment. This was her conquest, and he would share it with her in the way she wanted.

Finally, the quakes in her body subsided, and she dropped her hands, with a languid sigh. The river from her loins did not cease, however, and Zorubaash felt as if he might drown. He didn't think it would be a terrible way to go, but he desired to share more with her, just the same. She slid off his face, gripping his mane on either side of his head. She bent low to kiss him, again, as her body slid over his, painting a streak down his torso with her slick, lusty slit. She tasted herself upon his lips and began to purr. As they locked tusks, one of her hands clenched his, while the other reached lower to guide his pulsing cock into her anxious opening. Placing the tip at her entrance, she pulled her lips from his, with a hungry smile, "Now, my chief, you will breed me. Fill me with fire and forge a new blade within my belly." With that, she sat back on his twitching member, all the way to the hilt, letting out a moan of pure bliss, as it struck home, prodding her hungry womb. She gasped and looked down upon him, with a tenderness he had not seen since this all started. She drew up his hand, still clutched in hers, and placed it upon her stomach, saying, "Feel it, my chieftain. Feel the the forge within me. Feel the chamber for our young, the future of our clan. Feel, and fill it to the fullest." She released his hand, but he did not remove it, as she began to rock her hips upon his rod. She seemed to cherish his touch, in that moment, more than she had begun to before. She leaned over, not breaking her stride, and guided his other hand to her hips. "Feel them," she said. "Feel the hips that shall bear our young. They are yours. I am yours, and you are mine." He looked up at her, following the passing of her hands as they drew up her flanks and, again, cupped her erect breasts. They were not overly large. They were simply perfect. They were hers, and he loved them, as he loved her. She looked upon him with tenderness and affection, her pace increasing along with her rapid breaths, while teasing herself and basking in his attentive supplication.

Her hips rocked with abandon, as she saw his looks of affection. It stoked her fire and drove home the need for his seed. She wanted all of him. She wanted to see more of what he will become. She wanted to see their children. She desired to hold and suckle them. She desired beyond a mere priestess of the Forge. She longed to be everything he saw in her and was reflected in his eyes. She could feel every inch of him within her, and she bit her lip. She could feel it, his head pressing against the doorway, the opening of her womb. She wanted it. She prayed to the Forge and the Spirits that his seed would take root and grant them a strong child, new life for the clan and for her loving chieftain. He began to pant, as well, groaning under her voracious assault, and it drove her forward. "Mazoga," he grunted, "I...it comes." Yes! That is what she wanted, what she needed. She began to feel him twitch within her, and she thrust back against his hips, burying his cock deep against her cervix, as he erupted, pulsing new life into her. They roared in mutual climax. Her nails dug into his sides, bracing herself against his raging flow, while he also gripped her hips and kept himself buried deep within her. As the initial surge subsided, they looked at each other, with flush faces and panting mouths. They loosened their grip on one another but did not separate. He still pulsed, and she wanted every drop within her. She collapsed upon him, cupping his face and enjoying a long, passionate kiss. He was hers, and she would cherish him, as he cherished her.


	5. A Challenge and a Departure

As the days passed, Zorubaash would spend them hunting, training, and learning. In the mornings, he would hunt or walk with his Forgemaster to observe their ceremonies and practices. His mind would soak up everything his senses could supply him, and he would ask Mazoga for clarifications, when she could give them. He wanted to know his people, but the hunt always called to him. He would consult with Hagurth, and learn their ways of hunting, while teaching them some that he had learned in the mountains or on his adventures. Occasionally, however, he would slip out, before any were awake, and seek a mighty beast within the forest, and return with meat, trophies, and tales for his people. He enjoyed seeing the children gather around to listen to his hunting tales, some of them clutching a parent's leg or holding the hand of a sibling, but mostly, they sat and listened, as he cast the powerful medicine of stories.

In the afternoons, he would train with Darth or do odd jobs with other Rats, occasionally asking if a Forgeborn or two would like to join. Hagurth was usually first to volunteer, but her duties did not always allow her to accompany him. He grew stronger with the blade, as Darth's instructions and their sparring began to beat the skill into his mind and body. From time to time, small groups of the town guards and even some of the townsfolk would gather to watch their sparring and even add their heckling or place wagers on the two combatants. It was good, he thought to himself. It reminded him of his sparring with Braakam and Raashazur, and in those moments, he would offer a prayer of protection and good health to the Bear for them. He missed them, but he did not wish to join in the corruption of the clans. In those moments, he longed to call them to himself, to join his Forgeborn and find a new way, a better way, for Orcs...together. The longing for community was new to him. He had always wandered from his people, in the past, but now, something new had taken hold. Before, his clan was cold and hard, like the wind-blasted rocks of the mountains, but here, people were warm and relatively welcoming, much like the forests he hunted in. There were dangers, to be sure, but he never felt like the forest was trying to push him away. Always, the Bear and the hunt called to him, welcoming him along the path he followed. He knew the Forgeborn acknowledged him as chieftain, by right of combat and tradition, but he now longed for them to welcome him, as kin, and to walk beside him, like the Bear.

One night, as they lay upon their bed, Zorubaash asked Mazoga, "What must I do to call my people home, all of them." As he ran his hand over her figure, she replied, "My Chief has called his people, and many have answered, but one still leads others away." He remembered the younger Orc who had sat in the Forgemaster's tent, the day Zorubaash had been brought to the Forgeborn, carrying Lurog's Shame. He remembered the pride in his eyes and the disdain he had shown to the wanderer who would be chieftain. He realized, then, how he must have appeared as a usurper to this proud Orc warrior, who also desired the headship of chieftain and had been groomed for it by the Forgemaster. In a way, he sympathized with the renegade Forgeborn. Would he not also stand and fight against a usurper, if one had sought to topple Gruuk, back in those days? Was he not now standing in defiance of Syrdar and some great, dark power that sought to claim all Orcs and topple the world into madness? Yes, he sympathized, but he would not relent. The Bear had set him upon this path, and his own strength had carried him through to claim Lurog's Pride and break the shame of his people. He would bend this pup to heel, or he would crush him.

She could see the conflict of emotions in his face, and asked, "Does my Chief war with himself?" He furrowed his brow and replied, "Do you..." He hesitated, fearing what she might say in reply, "Do you regret that I claimed Lurog's Pride and now lead the Forgeborn, instead of your disciple?" She only looked at him, but he saw that her eyes were looking through him. For a time, she didn't say anything, and he didn't know what was worse, a disparaging reply or no reply at all. Finally, she breathed deeply and spoke, "I feel sorrow that he has forgotten his duty to his people. I feel pain that he has chosen to war against his own, instead of returning to the forge. I know that things may have been easier for us, if he had claimed Lurog's Pride, but I do not regret. My Chief is strong, and he adds his steel to the Forge. This has not been easy, but no blade worth forging is an easy task. A blade must be hammered, heated, scraped, and tempered. Always, forces work against the will of the steel, until both the blade and the hammer come to understand one another. Then the steel and the hammer begin to resonate, and the blade takes its shape." She placed her hand upon his chest, and felt the beating of his heart, as she continued, "The Forge beats within you, and it has shaped your steel. You have learned, and so have we. With each day, we become more and more your people, as you become more and more our chieftain. The Forge is never easy, and it forms good blades. Our chieftain's way is not easy, but it may yet forge strong blades." He put his hand upon hers, with a gentle squeeze, and added, "With the steady hand of my Forgemaster and the steel of my people, we will forge mighty blades, together."

He set his jaw and looked into her eyes, asking, "What does the Forge require of me, that I might unite my people?" She breathed in, deeply, and replied, "You must break the blade of your enemy, before the people. You must take their shame upon you, as you call to them, and break it upon the forge." He thought upon her words then replied, with determination, "I will send the challenge, in the morning. He will answer with honor, or I will hunt him down and break his bones against the stones. My people will be whole, again." She nodded and drew closer to him, saying, "As my Chief wills."

...

He waited outside the town of Venzor. He had chosen a place away from the people, so as to keep trouble from their homes. It was large and open, along the main road, heading north. As his people stood behind their chieftain, he recalled the days leading up to that moment. True to his word, he made to send a challenge to the renegades, himself. Mazoga, however, had advised against it, as they only needed to kill him and take the blade for themselves, in order to achieve their victory. More ceremony was required of the chieftain, and he had relented, begrudgingly. Instead, he sent Hagurth, along with a party of her finest warriors. He remembered what Mazoga had said to him then, "My Chief would send a loved one into danger?" He looked at her, completely puzzled at both her choice of words and her incredulity, and sternly replied, "I love all my people. If I must send one of them into danger, I would rather it be one I am sure will return, to her Chief, victorious." She had nodded dutifully and returned to explaining another of the shared duties and aspects of the chieftain and the Forgemaster. He had wondered then, what the question was even for. Then the words of Darth returned to him, and he snapped a shocked look of realization to Mazoga, who caught it and returned with a wry smile. The rest of the day, he had been like a whipped pup, silent and a little unsure.

Hagurth, however, had returned safely, with no casualties. She had found the renegade camp, and delivered the challenge, calling them to the spot Zorubaash had chosen. When she returned and reported her success to Zorubaash, she had mentioned that something was different about the renegade leader. She said he had seemed on edge and looked as if he hadn't been sleeping. Zorubaash pondered this, as horns from the lookouts blew and shook him from his musings. The renegades approached, and as they did, the Forgeborn drew around their chieftain. He looked about him, and saw that they only looked ahead, at their kinsmen. Not a one had stayed behind. He had discussed with Mazoga his desire for them to be ready for travel, should the worst happen. He did not wish for any trouble to befall the people of Venzor or his own, should the challenge end with him broken beneath an enemy's blade. Mazoga had counseled him then that none would wish to obey that command, as it would demonstrate a lack of faith in the strength of their chieftain, and he had nodded his understanding. So there he stood, with his people and his Forgemaster beside him, not a one flinching or doubting.

As the renegades came into full view, Zorubaash noticed what Hagurth had meant. Their leader seemed gaunt, with deep sags under his eyes, which twitched and swept his surroundings, as if he saw unseen enemies everywhere. Zorubaash stepped forward to meet them, with Hagurth and Mazoga behind him, while the Forgeborn followed. He raised his hand in greeting, and they all stopped several paces away from each other. He then spoke, loudly, "I greet you, my people. Will you return to the Forge and relinquish your desire for the blade?" The leader growled his reply, "We will not follow a usurping wanderer, an honorless dog!" Zorubaash yelled back, "You speak of dishonor, yet it is YOU who have turned their back on the ways of your people. You have broken from the clan, without tithe, and seek the life of your chieftain. Your shame is your own, but I will break it upon the Forge." With that, he removed the cloak his people had fashioned from the hide of the Owl Bear he had slain in the forest, handing it to Hagurth, who took and folded it in a ceremonial manner. Next, he unbuckled the blade from his back and held it before him, saying, "The challenge was given, and you have replied, with what honor you have left. The people will bear witness, as I break your blade and unite our people." The renegade's eyes widened, greedily, as he beheld the blade. Zorubaash then turned to his Forgemaster, and passed Lurog's Pride to her, with reverence. In a low, teasing voice, he said, "I would like this back, when I'm done." She looked at him, warmly, and replied, "As my Chief wills." He then drew the axe and hammer from his belt and crossed his arms before him, in the way that Mazoga had shown him, saying, "Let us test our steel, in the fire."

At the sight of this ceremony being performed by an outsider and in front of all his people, the renegade roared in rage and swung his massive axe at Zorubaash's head in a sweeping arc. Zorubaash remembered his training and his muscles reacted with feral instinct, ducking under the blade and forward to drive the hammer into his opponent's gut and bringing up the axe to slice at his side, as he sought to pass under his guard and flank him. The enraged renegade dropped his shoulder and drove it into Zorubaash, sending him skidding across the dirt. Zorubaash slid his lead foot behind him and readied himself to pounce, but his opponent had already turned to charged him. Zorubaash brought up his weapons in a cross guard and met his opponent's blade. They locked weapons and began to exert their power against the other, not letting either opponent gain advantage. Now Zorubaash could see the wildness in his enemy's eyes. He was in a blind rage, but a moment of terror flashed in those frenzied eyes. Zorubaash blinked for only a moment, in surprise, but his opponent did not hesitate. He shoved the chieftain and swung the axe. As Zorubaash jumped back, the edge of the blade sliced across his chest, drawing first blood. He barely felt it, however, as his immense, corded muscles would not allow the axe to bite any deeper than the surface of his skin. The attacker then swung, wildly, with a backhand stroke, and Zorubaash dodged by sweeping his right leg behind him, as he used the crook of his hammer to catch the base of the axe blade and causing his attacker to stumble forward as the added force threw off his balance. He would have to thank Enis for that trick, he thought, as he continued his parrying spin, carrying the full swing of his own axe around his enemy's guard and driving it deep into his back.

The leader stumbled forward, as Zorubaash recovered his stance and prepared to attack, again, but then he stopped. There, upon his opponent's back below where his axe had struck, was the mark of Syrdar. The festering, inflamed brand stood out against the verdant hue of his opponent's flesh and seemed to pulse with malice. "Fool!" he bellowed. "You have sided with evil and allowed your flesh to be marked by it!" His opponent then turned, as if drawing power from some other force and raised his axe to point at Zorubaash, saying, "And what of you, proud chieftain? Do you not also bear the same mark, upon your leg." Zorubaash didn't flinch at his words, however, he only seethed with anger. "A brand upon unwilling flesh only marks me as conqueror, dog! I have broken it, and claimed my destiny! It holds no power over me! " His enemy hefted his axe and made ready to charge, again, saying, "Then you are the fool! This power will bring me victory." Zorubaash sighed, and sheathed his weapons, saying, "No. It will only bring you death." Time seemed to slow, as his enemy bounded towards him. He rushed to meet him, gauging the instant when his enemy's arms were at their apex and unable to react. He swept under his guard, driving his shoulders deep into his opponent's stomach, tucking his legs under him, and tossing him over his back, with a roar.

His opponent's face connected with the dirt, unable to recover from the throw while hefting a large axe over his head and in mid charge. The axe fell from his grip, as his body slid across the ground. Zorubaash did not waste any time, and as quickly as he had thrown him, he was chasing after his enemy's tumbling form, picking up the great axe, as he ran. His enemy only had time to look up from a stooped position, as the blade flew under his arms and buried itself bellow his ribs, nearly cutting him in half. The defeated warrior fell back, coughing a sudden gout of blood, as Zorubaash let go of the weapon and drew his own. As Zorubaash loomed over his opponent for the final blow, he noticed him struggling to remove the axe from his upper body. The frenzy had left his eyes. Now, only terror and sorrow remained. For a moment, the fallen warrior struggled against the blade, but then he looked up and saw the chieftain standing over him. All he could gurgle through his blood-choked lungs was, "Please!" Zorubaash saw a warrior suffering, and he nodded in understanding. He would give him a clean death and send him to his ancestors. He drew back to strike, but as he did so, his instincts screamed at him to flee. He jumped back, just in time, as a great maw of bone and sinew erupted from the cavity in his enemy's chest, dislodging the axe, and made to snap at the chieftain. He heard a collective gasp from the gathered Forgeborn and a few shouts of terror, as the mouth of flesh, bone, and viscera continued to form and surge from the now dead enemy's corpse, turning him inside out and taking the shape of some nightmarish beast.

As the beast knitted itself together with whatever dark magic had been infused into the brand, Zorubaash did not waste the time trying to calm his people. He sprinted for Mazoga, yelling, "The blade!" She heard, and then she acted, tossing the blade into the air as he passed. He gripped the handle, while the wrapping fell away, and his rage ignited the fire within, causing the flames to erupt and course along its length. He roared as he ran, fueling the fire with the hatred he felt for Syrdar and another life lost to his dark hands. "FORGEBORN TO BATTLE! FOR GLORY! FOR THE FORGE!", he yelled. He pivoted and ran straight for the creature, creating a trail of fire behind him. The beast barely had time to swipe at him as he slid under its belly, drawing the burning blade across its middle and spilling its fetid guts upon the ground. He then dug his feet into the ground, bunched his legs, and dove back at the beast, holding his blade like a lance and driving it deep into the monster's ribs, seeking whatever could be called its heart. The beast roared with pain and fury, beginning to rampage against the mighty chieftain with a burning sword buried in its side.

He felt his grip begin loosen on the blade, as the creature bucked, furiously, trying to dislodge them both. Still, he held on, roaring his defiance. Then he heard his roar joined by others, as he saw spears and javelins pierce the creature. Other blades plunged into its flanks and pierced its sides. Soon, he was joined by Hagurth, screaming her rage at the beast as her weapons struck true. He looked to her and yelled, "The blade! Force it in!" She left her weapons lodged in the creature and gripped Lurog's Pride, opposite him. They planted their feet and drove the blade deeper into the chest of the creature, as she added her rage to the fire. The tip erupted from the other side of the beast in a gout of steaming blood and flames, but still they did not stop. The other warriors beside them heaved against the creature, as well, forcing it off balance and sending it crashing to the ground. With a death cry, the beast shuddered and was still. Zorubaash stood and looked around him, checking for any wounded or dead. What he saw was the Forgeborn, all of them, standing about the creature, huffing and growling at its corpse. As the magic broke, and the monster of flesh and bone began to dissolve, Zorubaash drew the blade from its corpse, held it aloft and roared, "For the Forge!" Seeing their chieftain's elation, the other warriors pulled their gore soaked weapons from the creature, held them aloft and joined in his cry, adding their collective voice to his, in victory.

As the roaring died down, the Forgeborn began to part, and the Forgemaster emerged, bearing Zorubaash's cloak. He checked the blade for any gore, but the fires had burned it all away. He used a cloth to wipe away the ash, examined it for any nicks or dents. Seeing that it was still sharp and undamaged, he returned it to the harness on his shoulders. He then nodded to Mazoga, who nodded in reply, and he accepted the cloak from her hands, throwing it around his shoulders and fastening it there. Then he heard Hagurth speak up, behind him, "Hail the Chief! Hail Zorubaash!" At this, all the Forgeborn roared, even the renegades, "Hail Zorubaash! Hail the Chief!" He looked to Mazoga, and said, "Now I will break their shame. My people will be whole, again." She nodded and held out her hands for his ceremonial blade. He drew it from the sheath and gave it to her, ceremoniously. Then she called the renegades by name and had them stand before their chieftain, asking each of them, "Will you return your steel to the Forge?" Each nodded in turn, and she drew the blade down the marks upon their chins. Each caught the blood and added their hand print to the chieftain's chest and arms. When all were finished, Mazoga turned and handed the blade back to Zorubaash, with reverence, and then nodded for him to continue the ceremony. Zorubaash took the blade and held it over his head, saying, "You are Forgeborn, again, and I break your shame upon the Forge!" He then broke the ceremonial blade, letting the pieces fall upon the ground. Nothing more was said, for there was no need. He walked forward, with Mazoga and Hagurth at his sides. The crowd of Forgeborn parted for them and then filed in behind them.

They marched back to camp, passing along the town, and Zorubaash caught glimpses of townsfolk and the occasional guardsmen stopping to watch their parade. There were excited whispers and the occasional skittering of feet, as the people did not know what to make of this silent parade of Orcs passing by the town and towards the Hall of the Noble Rat. Every once in a while, he would overhear the conversations. "That's Goremash, of the Band of the Noble Rat...Must be his clan with him...That's odd. They don't look like him. You sure they're...Shush! He's their chieftain. I heard it from Yoshum...Oh mommy, look! Some of them have a cut on their chin. Are they gonna be okay?...Probably an Orc thing, sweety. They don't seem hurt, do they?...No, but I hope they're okay...I didn't know there were so many!...Have they always been here?...Don't you remember that rumor that they were here to attack us?...That's odd, they seem so stoic. Are you sure they meant to attack us?...Oh! That's Hagurth. She's very nice to my daughter...Hey! Isn't that one of the warriors that helped us chase off those wolves?...Oh hey! I know her. She's really good with an axe. I wonder if she could teach me some moves...Ha! She'd break you, but I'd put some coin on it." The conversations carried on, and Zorubaash noticed that more and more people began to gather at the edge of the town, as word spread. Zorubaash didn't look, directly, but from the sounds coming from them side, he could tell it had grown rather large. They passed the town without incident or interruption, and he had even heard a few cheers and whoops, as the crowd had grown quite excited, seeing a full clan of Orcs parade by, with Zorubaash in the lead. When they were well outside the town and on their way to the camp, he heard Hagurth say, "They cheered for you, my Chief." He shook his head, slightly, saying, "No, Hagurth. They cheered for us, for the Forgeborn." They neared the walls, still under construction around the new abbey, and Zorubaash could see a small crowd waiting for them within. In the front as Countess Abyth and her mother, Regent Sara, along with the Band of the Noble Rat. They waived at the parade of Forgeborn, and Abyth shouted, "Chief Gore! Welcome home! We've made lunch!" He didn't waive, as he felt it would break the ceremony of the parade, but he smiled and spoke to the mighty women beside him, saying, "They cheer for us."

...

Months later, morning came on a day that Zorubaash was conflicted. He rose early, doing his best not to disturb the restful sleep of his wives, and prepared his gear for the Rats' trip to Neotham. Kleatus had become restless, over the year, desiring to see his "sister-lover", as he called her, and to discover more about his mother and her reaving history, although Zorubaash suspected there was more reaving in Kleatus' heart than concern for his family. He didn't mind, however, as he was well accustomed to raiding lowland villages for supplies and resources during the long winters of his former clan. This would just be a hunt at sea, and perhaps he would finally be able to fulfill his vow to Nellothein. From what information the Rats had collected in the dungeon and from Wrona's network of informants, it seemed like the port of Neotham was the best place to start their search. No, what weighed on him that morning was whether he would make it back in time for the birthing ceremony of his first born.

Thoughts distracted him, while he worked, causing him to rattle the javelins in their quiver. He froze, sensing to see if the sound had woken Mazoga or Hagurth. He heard Hagurth shift in the bed, and he could see her swollen belly as she rolled over. She did not wake, however, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He went back to his work, and then heard a soft voice behind him ask, "Does my Chief seek to leave without a word to his Forgemaster and mother of his child?" He winced, slightly, realizing he had not managed to keep his work from disturbing her. He crept closer to the bed, keeping his voice low, so as not to disturb the other sleeper, "No, my Forgemaster. I sought only to let you rest as long as possible." She grimaced slightly at his words and said, "My mornings are early, as always. The Forge calls." He had learned that even pregnancy would not dissuade her from tending to the forge, and so he nodded his understanding. Although her visits were shorter, with more frequent breaks in between, he had not known her to miss the morning ceremony of lighting the fires and stoking the forges to life. The sisters, as the twin smiths were called, had taken up most of Mazoga's tasks within the forge tent, allowing her the freedom to step out and rest, but she was still bound to her duty. He had grown to know how deep that duty ran and that her heart did beat for it, just as it beat for the child within her belly. He tenderly placed his hand upon her girth and felt the child shift within. "He will be a mighty warrior, forged for battle," she said, as she placed her hand upon his, with affection. "You think so?" he replied, his gaze never leaving the precious vessel. "I think she would be a wise smith, like her mother." He looked up at her, with a warm smile, and she returned his gaze. "Perhaps the child will be both," she said, reminding him that one could be a smith or a warrior within the clan, regardless of the child's sex or where it came from. He grinned, and replied, "Perhaps, and I will be proud of either or both." A warm smile crossed her face, as she returned her gaze to her belly, rubbing it affectionately. He cupped her cheek with his hand, presented her with a kiss, and then returned to his work, making a final count of his equipment and securing the bundles.

He began to don his gear for the day, as she rose from the bed and waddled over to the wash basin. By now, he did not think to help her, unless she asked, she was indeed strong and full of her people's pride. She was also wise beyond years and knew when to seek help. He would not impose his care upon her, unless she called for it. As he strapped on his breeches and began to buckle the mighty belt about his waist, he heard her ask, "How long, my Chief." Fitting his boots, adorned with Zanarick's bones, he replied, "A month or less, I hope. If it may take longer, I will send word, and if it is too long, I will use the scroll Spellbook has given us, to return." He then heard Hagurth beginning to stir from her slumber, while he began to strap the bracers, crafted from more of the dracolich bones and claws, upon his arms. Eventually, he heard her ask, "Why must our Chief leave so soon before the birthing?" He stopped his dressing, as a twinge of regret struck him, and replied, "My brother grows restless, and I must honor my oath to him." He began tightening the straps, as he continued, "I will also be looking for signs of Syrdar and his dark plans. While we have enjoyed a year of relative peace, here, I suspect he has continued his schemes. Shadows continue to grow, even in the light of day, and I fear they may cover our world in darkness." She rose from the bed and crossed the tent to help him fasten the straps at his back. "Has the Bear shown you this?" she asked, as her swelling belly pressed against the small of his back. "He has, and Wrona's informants have confirmed that while the flood is at a stand still, locked in conflict with some unseen force in the North, dark things bearing Syrdar's mark continue to move throughout the land." She moved around him, checking for anything his eyes might have missed, and his sight was indeed distracted. Her growing features could not hide the fact that she was a warrior, first, and a mighty one at that. Her muscles had not softened, as she had continued to train and hone the warriors, even in pregnancy, much like Mazoga tended the forge.

She finished her fussing over him and gave a nod of approval. He chuckled, slightly, which caused her to look up and ask, "Is something amusing, my Chief?" His hands cupped her cheeks, gently, and he kissed her, passionately, before replying, "Aye! A year ago, I returned to my people, whom I had barely known a fortnight, and now I have the two mightiest women of the clan standing beside me and bearing our children. I am amused that a wanderer like me could be so blessed in this life." She put one of her hands upon his, pressing her cheek against it, and smiled with affection. He continued, "Do either of you realize how deeply I care for you and our people?" She removed his hand and moved it to her growing stomach, saying, "I think we have an idea." As she smiled back at him, he grinned and gave an affectionate chuckle. Mazoga finished bathing and getting dressed, with a little help from Zorubaash, while Hagurth took her turn bathing. She then asked him, "Would my Chief walk with his Forgemaster?" He smiled and simply replied, "As my Forgemaster wills."


	6. Arrivals and Omens, Pt. 1

Zorubaash steadied himself, as wave after wave of vertigo and nausea assailed him, calling his senses back from the brink of unconsciousness by sheer force of will. As his head began to clear, he looked around to determine his whereabouts. "Crom be damned!" he exclaimed, as a tormenting realization struck him. He was back in Zanarick's Tomb. Not wasting time with self-pity, he drank a potion in his bandolier to recover the health and vitality he had lost being flung into another plane of existence and through the myriad layers of wards that Zanarick had put around this place. He knew full well that an attack could come from any direction and death lurked around every corner, here. As he felt the elixir begin its work, he checked himself and thanked the Bear that he was not shackled as before. At this realization, he felt a surge of elation. He cursed his brash impulsiveness for getting him into the accursed place, again, but he thanked his lucky star that he was not bound and weakened. He almost lost his sense and laughed out loud, but something else caught his attention, and he crouched low, keeping to the shadows and perceiving through the winding passages and doorways to locate the sound.

Up ahead and around two more turns, he could hear the sounds of combat. He heard a deep bellow and the sound of rocks being dragged across the stone floor. He then heard the hisses and shrieks of an all too familiar creature. He broke one of his javelins in half, making two spikes as quietly as possible, and stuck them in his belt for quick use. As he drew nearer, he heard more roars and hissing, and his skin crawled, as memories washed over him. He had fought these creatures in the lower rooms of Zanarick's Tomb, then called Zanarick's Prison. He recalled their pale flesh, hard as stone. He remembered their sharp fangs and raking claws, like steel daggers. Mostly, he remembered their lust for blood. Vampires...yes, he knew them, and he knew how to kill them. For a short moment, he almost wished the Rats' newest member was with him, as his blade of sunlight would be extremely useful against these wretches, but he reminded himself that he was not the weakened and shackled warrior he had been the first time. He had defeated them then. He will destroy them now.

He neared the room with all the commotion, and he readied his weapons, drawing two javelins for a surprise attack. With his back against the doorway, he peered around the corner and into the room. There, he saw a large, humanoid creature, wearing only a loincloth and brandishing two large stones in his fists, flailing against a small swarm of the vile wretches Zorubaash knew to be vampires. He did not know this warrior, but he fought with fire and ferocity, and Zorubaash liked that. He pivoted around the doorway, loosing two javelins at a couple vampires he had spotted atop the person's back. The javelins struck one in the back and the other in the shoulder. They lost their balance and began to fall from his back. Zorubaash was already at a full sprint, with his mighty blade in hand and the cry of his people on his lips. All combatants turned, as a great, charging Half-Orc, covered in tattoos and wearing dragon bones barreled towards them, with a roar in common-tongue, "For da Forge!" The blade ignited with his rage, and as the two wounded vampires fell to the floor, Zorubaash plunged the burning blade into the first, setting it ablaze. He swung his blade upwards, bisecting the impaled vampire and cleaving the other's head and shoulder from its body, in a flaming arc. He stood behind the other combatant, in a defiant stance and bellowed with rage, "Zorubaash haz returned, h'you blood-sucking vorms, and death comes vith him!" The vampires recovered, quickly, from the sudden attack and rounded on the chieftain, seeking to rend his flesh and taste his blood. He impaled one, as it tried to pounce on him and threw his shoulder into the chest of another, sending it sprawling on the floor. Over his shoulder, he shouted to his new ally, "Fight for life or die in dis pit and become vun of dem!" He didn't see if the other person acknowledged his words, but he heard a shriek cut short with a wet, crushing sound, as one of the rocks in his ally's hands crushed the now prone vampire's head against the floor. "I fight!" he heard from behind, and it sounded like boulders rolling down a mountain.

The skirmish may have lasted only a few minutes, but to the victors it felt like hours. The vampires wouldn't stop their attack, as if they were starved for blood. It didn't matter to Zorubaash or his ally, however. The creatures would only taste fire and stone, as far as they were concerned. As the large brute slumped to the ground, Zorubaash sheathed his blade and drew the hammer and spikes, checking the downed vampires and finishing any who still clung to their undeath, with a hammered spike through their lifeless hearts. Satisfied that his work was done, Zorubaash wiped the spikes and tucked them back into his belt, turning to face his ally. "Good! H'you fight like varrior. Fire burns in h'your veins," he said in his heavily accented common-tongue. The man was still panting but looked up and replied, "I fight and live like warrior. Am Gurgnir of Lu...humph...just Gurgnir." There seemed to be a sense of loss in his voice, but Zorubaash chose to keep his spirits up and relish in the victory a little longer, as he said, "Vell met, mighty Gurgnir! I am Zorubaash, chieftain of Forgeborn. H'you are good ally in dis dark tomb." Gurgnir furrowed his brow and nodded sternly, saying, "Have not been called 'ally' since..." He trailed off, and his shoulders slumped, but not in defeat. Zorubaash saw fire behind his eyes, as if he was remembering painful things that fueled that fire. Zorubaash sighed, with a smile, saying, "But ally h'you are, now. Ally of Chief Zorubaash." He then pulled rations from his pouch and offered one to his ally. "Here! Iz food for strength. H'you have earnt dis and my tanks," he said, handing over the ration. Gurgnir took it in his massive hand, sniffed it, and nodded his gratitude.

As Gurgnir ate the ration, Zorubaash looked him over, checking for any deep wounds or grave injuries. He knew that warriors could sustain terrible wounds during combat that would go unchecked and then eventually succumb to the injuries, suddenly. In checking, he noticed that Gurgnir was not of the Goliath tribes, as he had assumed. He didn't bear the usual markings that he had been told about. Not only that, this man was easily nine or ten feet tall! While the hulking man was eating, Zorubaash sat next to him, with his back against the wall and the carnage laid before them. He unbuckled the blade and checked it for nicks and dents. Satisfied it was in excellent condition, he offered thanks to the Bear and to the Forge, beginning to put it away. "That mighty sword. You make it fire?" he heard his companion say. Zorubaash placed it back upon his lap, explaining, "Dis iz de pride ov my people, and I carry dem vith me, verever I go. I feed de blade vit my rage, and dey reply with de fire of dehr hearts." At this, Gurgnir snorted in disgust, but Zorubaash allowed him his ignorance, as he continued, "I did not alvays have people. Vonce I vas Bloodfist of de mountains, but I seek de Bear and de vorld beyond. He lead me avay from de clan. Iz good, too, bekause clan fall to corruption by prideful chief and dark sorcerer. Now I hear only few remain untainted." He looked down upon Lurog's Pride and recalled, "De Bear lead me on long journey and many adventures. Von day, I find mighty sword possessed by dark spirit, in belly of beast. I take dangerous blade, bekause I vant strength. Den Forgeborn find me and my friends. Dey see blade and say iz 'Lurog's Shame', zo dey take me to Forgemaster. She send me on qvest to reclaim other blade, 'Lurog's Pride'. I am strong, zo I take de blade and return to Forgeborn. Now dey call me 'Chief', hey? I am vanderer, far from people, and dey call me 'Chief'!" Zorubaash calmed, as he looked upon the blade with affection. "I did not know den, how much I missed a people to call mine. Now I am chief, and my people are strong. Dehr heart beats vithin de blade, and my heart beats for dem."

Gurgnir shifted, uncomfortably, and Zorubaash raised an eyebrow, as he said, "I don't see many giants in de vorld. Vot is von doink here, in Zanarick's Tomb." At this, Gurgnir shot a scowl at the chieftain, and asked, "How you know am giant?!" At this, Zorubaash roared with laughter. "My friend, h'you are titan in dis place! I am amazed h'you can fit!" He then cocked a wry smile in Gurgnir's direction and said, "And now h'you tell me dis." Gurgnir only frowned, realizing he had played right into the chieftain's trick. He let his head fall back against the stone wall, with a sigh, and said, "Am thrown in prison by other giants, as offering to Zanarick. Would not raid defenseless town. Giants say am weak...and weak must perish." Zorubaash furrowed his brow in disgust, saying, "Den dey are fools. H'you are strong. H'you show me dis, today. Refusing bad hunt iz not veakness. Defending odderz iz not dishonor." Gurgnir only stared at the vaulted ceiling above him, as he spoke, "Am hating giants for this. Giants' hearts black with greed. Am escaping prison, alive, and am seeking vengeance upon them." Zorubaash had finished securing the blade in its harness and then asked, "And vot den? Vengeance iz short path. Usually it end vith h'your own death." Gurgnir pondered the chieftain's words and then spoke, "Am making new clan and new people." At this, Zorubaash leapt to his feet and faced the sullen giant. "Good! Iz good! Fighting for new people iz good! Dat is vorthy journey. Come! Ve get out of tomb, and h'you show me dis. I show h'you my people, and h'you show me new people of Gurgnir...'Tomb Breaker'!" The giant only stared, in shock, at the exuberant chieftain, who was only a head taller than him, at this point. Zorubaash held out his hand to Gurgnir and said, "Come, my friend. Vee vill see dis path, together." Gurgnir's shock turned to a warm smile, and he rose to his feet, taking the chieftain's outstretched hand in his own massive grip, saying, "Aye, Chief Zorubaash of Forgeborn. We seeing this, together."

They just stood there, for a while, smiling at one another. Then Zorubaash remembered something, and stuck his hand into the bag at his side, thinking of the sending stone it contained. As he pulled it from the bag, Gurgnir asked, "What that?" Zorubaash smirked, playfully. "Iz sending stone. Iz to call friends and get out of dis place." He then placed the stone to his mouth and spoke, "Allen, iz Zorubaash. Am back in Zanarick's Tomb. Find Cami to open door, please. Tell Wrona Rats sailing to Khalren. Vill use Spellbook message paper." As he tucked the stone into his belt, so he could hear it when Allen replied, Gugnir asked, "What now?" Zorubaash looked up at the giant and simply said, "Now, vee vait." His senses picked up the distant sounds of hissing and scraping, approaching closer to their location. "But not here," he continued. "Deez vampires seem crazed, almost starved, and very dangerous." Then he looked around at all the bodies and blood, saying matter-of-factly, "And dey probably smell de blood." Gugnire nodded and went to pick up the two large stones he had used to crush and bludgeon the other vampires, but Zorubaash stopped him. "Here! Use dese," he said, drawing the axe and the hammer from his belt. For him they were a mighty battleaxe and a brutal warhammer, but for Gugnir, they looked more like an ornate hatchet and a fancy carpenter's hammer. He frowned at them, and said, "Those your weapons." Zorubaash only smiled, saying, "Iz loan. Are good for chopping limbs and crushing skulls. H'you vill need dem in dis place. Return dem ven vee are out." He then smiled broadly, and boasted, "Zorubaash iz generous chieftain to allies." Gurgnir nodded and accepted the weapons. As soon as he hefted the axe, however, he felt a malevolent force and scowled at the chieftain. "Axe hate giants," he said, sternly. "Aye!" Zorubaash replied. "Iz good for revenge on clan, yes? It vill not hurt vielder, dough. Only other giants." There was more scraping in the corridor, and Zorubaash heard a hungry screech echo down the hall. "Come! Vee must hurry," he said, turning and heading in the opposite direction. Gurgnir followed the back of the chieftain, with a determined look upon his face.

Through dark hallways and rooms filled with horrors, the two companions traversed the tomb. Every once in a while, Zorubaash would stop to scan the walls, looking for the familiar hand prints that would point him in a safe direction, although he did not fully trust them, as the Tomb was known to shift at random intervals. Gurgnir was indeed a strong ally, although he bore several cursed shackles, as Zorubaash had come to expect within this place. Eventually, Zorubaash found a familiar hand print that marked safety. He motioned Gurgnir into the room, and secured the doorway behind them. "Here vee rest," he stated. "Should be safe until friends open door vor us." At this, Gurgnir looked at him, puzzled, and asked, "You being friends of Zanarick?" Gore only laughed, saying, "Friends?! Ha! Vee broke de rotting vyrm upon our blades and took the varden stone. Now vee are masters of dis tomb." Realization struck Gurgnir, as he pieced together the chieftain's words. "You saying 'tomb', because killing Zanarick," he stated in understanding. Zorubaash grinned, wolfishly, and replied, "Aye! Vee slew him. His bones are now my trophies," and he pointed to the bones adorning his garb. "His soul is still trapped here, vithin de tomb, but his body iz scattered, and his skull hangs in de Hall of de Noble Rats." Gurgnir's eyes went wide with surprise, and he exclaimed, "You being Goremash of Band of Noble Rat! Am hearing songs sung of you, near small town. You being protectors of Venzor. Being crushers of beasts and snakes." He paused for a moment, and then asked, "Hero Krell being with you?" Zorubaash was soaking up the praise but winced at this question and growled, "Yes, he vill probably be in de library, reading, dough. He protects de Hall vit odder members." Then Gurgnir thought of another question, asking, "You being new warden, why here?" Again, Zorubaash winced at the impulsiveness that had landed him in this situation, explaining, "It is long story involving vizard pirate captain. Not vorth telling, really. Here, eat and rest. I vill send instructions to friends, and vee vait."

Zorubaash handed over his waterskin to Gurgnir, after taking a long drink, himself. Gurgnir emptied the waterskin and began devouring the rations Zorubaash had given him. Meanwhile, Zorubaash reached into his bag and pulled out a bedroll for himself and a large animal hide for Gurgnir. He also produced items for making a smokeless fire and assembled them in the center of the room. As the fire burned, it illuminated most of the room, casting their shadows against the walls. He then sat on his bedroll and pulled a scroll of enchanted parchment and a pen. By firelight, he penned a message to Spellbook, in his tower:

"Spellbook, this is Zorubaash. I am stuck in Zanarick's Tomb, with a friend. We are safe, for now. I will need Cami to open a door for us, so we can get out. I would rather not spend more months in this place, again. I will need information from Wrona on where to find Kleatus and the other Rats. They are sailing to a port in Khalren, but I do not know which one. I will explain more, when we are out. I will need Cami's magic carpet for transportation or some other way to reach Kleatus and the others. I worry that Kleatus might get into trouble, again. Please, inform Mazoga and Hagurth that I am well and that I will be returning soon, for a short time. I hope you are also well. I will see you soon, my friend. ~ Chief Zorubaash"

He let the ink soak into the paper, as the enchantment began to send the message to Spellbook's master scroll. He then rolled it up, and stuck it and the pen back into his bag. Zorubaash looked over to Gurgnir and saw that he had already fallen asleep, propped up against the wall and with the animal pelt draped over his knees. He chuckled to himself and thought, "You have it easy, my friend. Sleep well. I will take the watch, and then we will find your path."

He woke to the sound of the sending stone pinging an alert that a message was coming. He quickly glanced around, to ensure that all was quiet and safe. Gurgnir was still propped up against the wall, snoring. Zorubaash wondered if that is what he sounded like, when the Rats were camped on so many nights. Brushing that thought aside, he picked up the stone and held it to his ear. Allen's voice burst forth, in his usual, hurried manner, "Um, Gore? Cami's here. Sorry for the wait. She knows where you are. Will open door soon. Make sure all clear. See you soon." Zorubaash tucked the stone away and breathed a sigh of relief. Even though he knew they were masters of this place, he still did not like it there. He began to ready his gear, with vigor, waking Gurgnir, reassuringly. "Gurgnir! Time to leave, my friend. H'you vill be free ov dis place, soon." As soon as he had spoken the words, a massive doorway opened in the room, stretching all the way to the ceiling, with great arcane doors that swung outward, to freedom. The light of day shone into the dark room, and for the first time he saw a surge of life return to Gurgnir's eyes. Zorubaash stood in the doorway and stretched out his arms, saying, "Come and taste freedom!" Gurgnir stood, picking up the weapons and holding the pelt around his shoulders. Then they both stepped through the door and into the daylight.

Outside the door, Zorubaash was greeted by cheers and salutations, along with a few jibes at his being stuck there, again. He laughed heartily, regardless, and then all fell silent, as their eyes beheld Gurgnir. He simply stood there, basking in the sun, and Zorubaash wondered how long he had been in that prison. He quickly turned to the crowd and proclaimed, "Friends, I present Gurgnir Tomb Breaker, survivor and ally of Zorubaash and de Band of de Noble Rat!" Several guards and other people in the crowd raised their hands, in greeting, "Hail Gurgnir, ally of the Rats!" Gurgnir looked out over the crowd and then to Zorubaash, saying, "Am thanking you, Chief Zorubaash." At this, he felt a little hand pat his leg and looked down to see two little girls standing there. One was clearly human, in a very nice dress, while the other was...a moon elf? She was tall and slender, with an opalescent hue about her. She was not dressed like the other girl, however, as she wore leather armor over a light shirt and well fitted pants. She carried two blades at her back and seemed to be standing directly in the other girl's shadow, looking at the giant, with scrutiny. The little girl in the fancy dress then spoke up, "Mister Gurgnir? Welcome to our home! I'm glad you're friends with Chief Goremash. I am Countess Abyth, and that is my mommy, Countess Regent Sara...and that's Brak, just Brak. He likes my mommy and me, very much. He's like my daddy...Oh! And this is Nerwyne. She's my friend and playmate. She used to be in that prison with Chief Goremash, too, but now she's out, and we're good friends." He chuckled at her sincerity, and it sounded low rolling thunder in the distance. Then his stomach growled, and she exclaimed, "Oh! Are you hungry, Mister Gurgnir? We have food inside the abbey! Would you like some?" He smiled warmly, and simply nodded his head, unable to form the words. She skipped away, as the little, not-so-little elf followed in her shadow. "Allen! Allen? Allen, we need to get food ready for Mister Gurgnir...can I help?" Laughter rolled through the crowd as Countess Abyth skipped away, with Allen quick-stepping beside her. Zorubaash stood next to Gurgnir and said, "Velcome to our home, my friend." Gurgnir looked down at the chieftain, saying, "Being good people. Wanting home like yours, one day." Then he began to hand the weapons back to Zorubaash, who only took the hammer, as he said, "I vill accept my brother's warhammer, but de axe iz yours. H'you have earned it. May it serve h'you vell in h'your qvest, my friend. If h'you like, I vill ask my people if dey vill make veapons and armor more h'your size, but for now, you keep dis." Gurgnir paused for a moment and then replied, "Thanking you, mighty chieftain." Zorubaash smiled and said, "And I, h'you. Now come! Dehr vill be a feast vaiting for you, in Rats' home."

They walked, side by side, towards the abbey, as the crowd dispersed and returned to their daily duties. As the pair approached the abbey, the sight seemed to fill them both with life. The masons and craftsmen had done themselves proud. The walls were high and strong. The statues that Enis had commissioned were well shaped and mighty. He had even included statues of former members. They flanked the abbey, as if standing watch over the structure and all the residents. At the front of the entrance was Kleatus, with Skribbles perched on his shoulder and his bow in hand. The sculptors had indeed taken great care in crafting the details, and Zorubaash could see that they had inlaid his armor with silver rivets of seashells, merfolk, fish, and all manner of sea life. His dreadlocks were tied back with what looked like seaweed, and even his face held the same sideways smirk that usually frequented his face. Flanking him was the statue of Zorubaash, complete with dragon-horn headress and Lurog's Pride in his grip, the tip resting between his feet at base of the statue, as if he was standing guard, ready to do battle. He remembered how Enis and the artisan he commissioned had harried Zorubaash to pose for a sketch that the sculptors could use. He remembered the pointed glares from Hagurth and Mazoga, as well. He did his best to avoid the pests, but they were able to come up with something on their own. He admitted to himself that he liked it. None in his former clan had anything like this, but he knew what such a thing meant to his people, now, and he wished he could tear it down. He sighed, heavily, resigning himself to the impossible spot he found himself in, however. On one hand, it was a gift given by a friend. On the other, it was something that stirred up bad memories from his people's past. He had asked Mazoga about it, but she hadn't said much. Hagurth, however, had plenty to say, and it was all he could do to make them understand that he did not seek such things, only the betterment of his people. Continuing around the abbey were other statues of Enis, Cami, Nerwyne, Krell, George, Willigans, Mosgon, Shara, Chaevis, Mozgenn, and Nellothein. They were all magnificent, and they filled him with a great swelling of nostalgia and pride. Yes, these too were his people and a welcome sight.

In front of his own statue stood a band of Forgeborn warriors, led by Hagurth. He smiled, as he approached them, saying in orcish, "Hail, my warriors, my mighty Forgeborn!" Hagurth raised a hand in greeting and replied, "Hail, my Chief. You have arrived sooner that we thought...and with company." Zorubaash looked over his shoulder at Gurgnir, and said, "Aye! He is Gurgnir Tomb Breaker, my ally through Zanarick's Tomb." "He is a giant," she said plainly, looking him over. "Ha! Indeed! A strong ally and a good warrior," replied Zorubaash, with a laugh. She smiled at him and softly shook her head, saying, "My Chief always makes interesting friends." Then she turned to Gurgnir and greeted him in common, "Hail, Gurgnir Tomb Breaker, ally of my Chief! The Forgeborn welcome you, as our Chief has welcomed you." Gurgnir bowed, slightly, in a return greeting, and then looked to the chieftain. "Dese are my people, Gurgnir. De mighty Forgeborn! Dis iz my left hand, Hagurth. She vas de von who found me and brought me to de Forgemaster." Gurgnir bowed lower, with this knowledge, saying, "You am walking destiny path, oh Chief. You people am being mighty, am bringing honor to Chieftain." Zorubaash acknowledged the compliment, garciously, and then turned to consult with Hagurth.

There was a short conversation in orcish, between Hagurth and her chieftain, which sounded like an argument to Gurgnir, as most orc conversations did. He did notice that the Forgeborn seemed a lot more stoic than other orcs he had seen. They didn't speak much, and when they did, it seemed to be level and even-tempered. Gurgnir noticed that Zorubaash was a bit of an odd rock in this group, both by the hue of his skin, which was a dark, stone grey compared to their vibrant shades of green, and by the way he carried himself. Yes, he was gruff and stern at times, but he radiated life, like a mighty fire. All Gurgnir had ever known of orcs was that they were savage, like the giants, who warred as much amongst themselves as anyone else, but in a relatively short span of time he had met a chieftain who had shown him more compassion and camaraderie than his own people had done, before casting him into the prison. He observed, silently, during the conversation and wondered what destiny lay in store for these unique orcs. Eventually, Zorubaash finished his conversation with Hagurth, nodding his understanding, and turned to Gurgnir. "My friend," he said. "I must see to de needs of my people. De Forgemaster calls her chieftain, and I must answer." Gurgnir nodded in understanding, stating, "Am not to be keeping Chief from people." Zorubaash smiled and replied, "Nor vould I." He looked behind Gurgnir and waved at Countess Abyth, who was standing by the door. "It seems h'you are being summoned, too. Go, my friend. A feast and good company avaits you. I vill find you, again, ven duty is done." Gurgnir nodded and followed the tiny Countess into the abbey.

Zorubaash then turned back to his people, exclaiming to no one in particular, "Damn, he is a big one." There were mild chuckles from some of the other warriors, as they turned and started their walk back to camp. Once inside the Forgeborn camp, the other warriors dispersed and went about their business, while Hagurth and Zorubaash headed for the forge. As they approached, one of the two sentries outside peaked inside the flap and called the Forgemaster. Mazoga emerged to greet her chieftain, in her usual, stoic manner, "My Chief has returned, ahead of schedule." Zorubaash grimaced with embarrassment, and replied, "Hmph! It was not according to plan. A wizard hid some tricks up his sleeve. I will need to be more careful with such enemies, in the future." She simply nodded, and then spoke, "It is good that my Chief has returned. There are things that must be discussed." Zorubaash raised his eyebrows and asked, "What has happened?" Mazoga looked to Hagurth and then back to him, replying, "Wrona has news for my Chief that require action." She then looked to her bulging stomach and continued, "The child also grows restless, as the day approaches." His gaze shot to her belly, with anticipation. He looked back up at her face and nodded his understanding, then he asked, "Will we be meeting here or in the tent?" She replied, "We will meet in the tent. A warrior has been sent to call Wrona. She will be here soon." He acknowledged her words and then turned towards the meeting tent, offering his arm to Mazoga, saying, "Will my Forgemaster walk with me?" She nodded and graciously took his arm, stating, "As my Chief wills."

As they walked towards the tent, he felt a tender hand on his arm and noticed that Hagurth was walking closer to him, asking for attention in her own way. He nudged her, playfully, and she blushed. He then took her hand and squeezed it, gently. She smiled at him with affection. He then felt Mazoga tug on his arm and grip it sternly, seeking to pointedly return his attention to her. He straightened up, in mock propriety, and grunted in a chiefly manner. He glanced down, over his noble chin, and caught the faintest smile from Mazoga. No matter how far he roamed in his hunts or on his adventures, he knew he would never grow tired of returning to them. They stopped outside the tent, and Mazoga entered, unaided. Before she left his side, Hagurth squeezed his hand again and then entered the tent. He sighed, with affection and desire. He loved to watch them walk away. He stayed outside the tent until Wrona approached, with the warrior who was sent to fetch her. The warrior saluted and then returned to his other duties, as Zorubaash had returned the salute to send him on his way. He turned to Wrona and bowed, saying, "Mighty Wrona, Defender of the Hall." She returned his bow, with her own greeting, "Chief Zorubaash, Conqueror of Dungeons." He laughed at the jab and opened the flap for her, following after she had passed.

Inside the tent, Zorubaash took his place in the circle, between Hagurth and Mazoga and opposite Wrona. He passed the blade off to Mazoga, who then set it beside the chieftain, and Wrona lay her spear upon a pelt, with reverence, to show one another that this was a civil meeting. Zorubaash spoke first, "Greetings to you, Wrona Oryxin. I hear that you bring grave news." Wrona straightened and replied, "I do, Chief Zorubaash. My informants have sent word of movement around the Flood and of giants coming from the hills, bearing familiar marks." Zorubaash scowled, as he realized what Wrona meant. "So the sorcerous worm stretches his hand ever further," he growled. She nodded, and continued, "The Flood is still stopped in the northern region. Something around Wolf Pine keeps it from advancing. There seems to be movement in the upper mountain ranges, however. A small band of gray orcs have been seen moving away from the Flood, using animal trails, caverns, and the glaciers to hide their movement. From what I can gather, they do not act like others observed within the Flood, and they seem to be breaking away, under cover of night, moving only in the day, when patrols are far from them." At this news, Zorubaash's heart jumped within his chest. Could it be the remnants of the Bloodfists he heard about before? This did indeed warrant attention.

As Zorubaash pondered the first part of Wrona's news, she continued, "As for the giants, it seems that Hill Giants have been seen leaving their hills and raiding small towns and villages. The city guard managed to kill a couple of them, but they cannot protect all of them. Among the dead giants were found...brands and dark marks, denoting Syrdar's handiwork. The giants were said to be in a frenzy and one was even said to have been..."twisted" was the word." Zorubaash only growled, as she carried on with her news. "Survivors have reported that the giants were seen carrying off people, as well as the usual animals, food, metal, and anything gold. It is assumed by survivors and the city guard that the people will also be used as food, but I suspect otherwise, from what you've told me about Syrdar and his methods." Zorubaash was seething at this point, but he calmed himself to ask, "And what of the Rats? Have you managed to locate where they made land?" Wrona only shook her head, replying, "I have not. You said they sail on a black ship under the name of the Mourning Wood and call themselves the Stinky Seagulls...Did Kleatus come up with those names?" Zorubaash sighed his affirmation, and Wrona rolled her eyes, continuing,"They use these names to cover their tracks, but I haven't heard any word of a ship or crew by that name making port anywhere. It's difficult to get any information out of Khalren, at this time. Even the embassies are being tight lipped, and that adds to the difficulty of skirting my family and keeping Venzor off their map."

Zorubaash nodded, solemnly, and thought for a while. Hagurth watched him, and Mazoga also seemed to be deep in thought. Eventually, Wrona spoke up, "It will take me time to locate Kleatus and the Rats, but for now, giants are the bigger issue. If they grow in power, they may become bold enough to attack Venzor." This snapped Zorubaash out of his thoughts. "Agreed," he said. "And I know an ally who is itching to settle a score. Does Lady Effrix and the town guard know of the giants and Syrdar." Wrona cocked her head, saying, "They know of the giants and are keeping watch, but I haven't mentioned Syrdar to them. Didn't want to panic the people." Zorubaash furrowed his brow thoughtfully, saying, "It may be time to meet with the Lady and share all. Also, we may need the aid of the other counties, especially that of Count Vorn. Can you arrange a meeting? I will speak with Regent Sara, as she will need to be my advocate in the court." Wrona nodded her understanding.

Hagurth then spoke up, "My Chief, what of the Flood and the roving band of orcs? They may be your people. Will you leave them in the wastes?" Zorubaash scowled at her, sternly, saying, "My people are the Forgeborn, and I will see to them, first. I left the Bloodfists, with tithe, and my blade was broken..." His face softened, and he continued, "But I have not forgotten my kith and my former kin. If I could, I would call them home, to me." Mazoga spoke up next, "If my Chief would hear his Forgemaster, I believe a small band of Forgeborn might be able to find these wanderers and deliver his message." For the first time in a long time, hope surged within Zorubaash, but he tempered it with the reality of the situation they faced, saying, "It would be dangerous, and the Forgeborn do not know the mountains and the glaciers, unlike the Bloodfists." She looked to him, warmly, and spoke, "Would my Chief teach his people?" Oh, how he longed to embrace her in that moment. Over the year since his return, they had struggled and made slow strides to understand one another, but in that instant, Zorubaash had realized none of it had been in vain. How he loved her! He loved his people, and he would defend them to his dying day. He had no words to express this, in that moment, however. He only nodded, in agreement.

The remainder of the time was spent making plans to contact the counties, petition for a meeting with Lady Effrix, and arrange for a small contingent of Forgeborn scouts and warriors to be trained, personally, by their chieftain. Before she left, Wrona also assured Zorubaash that she would keep an ear to the ground for the Rats and update him with any changes. He thanked her and mentioned that he would seek a way to contact them and likely consult with Krell and Spellbook as to a means. She then excused herself and left the tent, with Hagurth and Mazoga staying behind. For a while, they only sat, thinking. Zorubaash felt Mazoga take his hand and place it upon her belly. As he felt the child shift within and press against his hand, she said, "The child wants to meet his Chief." Zorubaash looked affectionately at her belly and asked, "How soon?" She replied, with her own affection, "A week, maybe more, but not long. The Forge is ready for his steel to be added to our number." He looked up at her and spoke, "I have returned, and I will be here, for you, for our child, and for the Forgeborn." She simply smiled and rested her head against his shoulder. Hagurth joined in, and they sat together, deep in thought and enjoying each others' company.

As they were sitting in the tent, his two strong wives beside him and his hand upon Mazoga's belly, Zorubaash felt the child push against his hand, again. He looked down, with a chuckle, and then stopped. A look of realization crossed his face, as he noticed the ring upon his finger. The ring! The message ring that Mosgon had made for the band! He could contact the other Rats, this very instant. He quickly removed his hand from Mazoga's belly, which caused her to ask, "Is something wrong, my Chief." He shook his head, saying, "No...not wrong. Everything is right." He held the ring up to his face and spoke, still in orcish, "Kleatus? Mosgon? This is Gore! I am well. I was sent to Zanarick's Tomb, but I am back with our people, now. Wrona is trying to find you. Leave signs for her to track you. I must remain here for a time. There is trouble near Venzor, but we will handle it. I am also staying for the birth of my child. I will find you, when all is settled. Be well, my Rats." He held the ring there, waiting to see if they would reply. He didn't need to wait long, however, as the ring spoke back, almost immediately, "That's 'Kaptain Krunch', man!" The sounds of rustling foliage and clanging steel made their way across the rings, as Kleatus continued, "Aight, man, we can...hot damn! Eehhh-oh HYA!...bitch...yeah, man. We can go'an leave a bread crumb or sumthin, but yeah, right now..." There was a loud whistle that cut across the sounds of battle, and Zorubaash knew Kleatus was calling his broom. "Right now, man, I need ta tweak a nip. Seeya, Gore-buddy!" He smiled with satisfaction, dropping his hand from his face and placing it back on Mazoga's belly. "You are strong and wise, little one. I cannot wait to meet you," he said with affection and pride. He then began to laugh, with joy, and he could feel the baby wriggle with impatience. His laughter carried outside the tent, and his people heard the voice of their chieftain.

The rest of the day was spent making good on their plans. Wrona sent a message to Lady Effrix notifying her that Chief Zorubaash had returned to Venzor with dire news for her and the counties. She had replied that she would hold a meeting the next day, at noon. Zorubaash consulted with Regent Sara, and she had agreed to be his advocate. Hagurth selected her best scouts and sharpest warriors to be trained, personally, by their chieftain for their mission to contact and possibly retrieve the Flood defectors. He would put them through the same training he had received in the warbands and teach them what he had learned on his hunts in the wastes. He would show them how Bloodfists communicated, stealthily, on a hunt and how to indicate that they were friends with a message. He would not send his people, unprepared, into the harsh and unforgiving world of his former clan. Mazoga had insisted that the Forgeborn would not make hasty weapons and armor for anyone, even an ally of her Chief, but she would allow the use of pelts, braided sinew, leather, pitch, and any spare metal and tools he would need to craft equipment for Gurgnir. Zorubaash asked his brother, Brak, if he would assist in the making of weapons and armor for Gurgnir, and he readily accepted, eager for a new challenge. They also planned a trip into the forest with Gurgnir to gather enough timber for a large, make-shift forge to heat and shape sheets and bands of metal large enough for Gurgnir's use. This would be an interesting opportunity, Zorubaash had thought. It would give him a chance to see what Brak had learned and show it to others, as well. Zorubaash also spoke with Krell and Spellbook about the use of dragon bone to make a large maul for Gurgnir. Krell had winced, as he said it was a waste of precious materials, but he relented before the insistence of the chieftain. It was his to use, by right of the kill, him and those who had slain Zanarick. Spellbook was his usual, overly excited self, and rambled off a litany of facts about dragons and dragon bone, before Zorubaash could calm him and extract the information he needed to properly work and shape the bone. He was such a unique creature, and Zorubaash marveled at the myriad of friends and allies he had made on his adventures.

That night, as Zorubaash and his wives prepared for bed, he asked of the birthing ceremony and what he would need to do to fulfill his role as chieftain. She explained, as they finished their preparations and lay upon the bed, with Hagurth resting her head upon his shoulder. He had come to enjoy Mazoga's calm voice. Once he had found it infuriatingly emotionless, but now he realize that he had simply not been listening close enough. Though her tone was steady and calm, other things spoke a deeper meaning. She was a creature of slight tells, and he found it reminded him of hunting. He had to use more than just his ears to read her mood and desires. He even found enjoyment in peeling back the layers of duty and ceremony to find the truth of her words. It was a worthy hunt, he now realized, and he relished it. Eventually she came to the part involving him, saying, "Once the child is born, you must carry him to the forge, while he is crying. The people must hear their chief's son cry to the Forge. There you must present him before the forge and declare that 'his metal is now added to the Forge.' The people will then respond according to tradition." Zorubaash turned his head towards her and asked, "Should the child not be warmed by his mother, first?" She shook her head and placed her hand on her belly, as she replied, "The Forge shall warm him, and he is Forgeborn, first, our son, second." He nodded in understanding and placed his hand upon her, saying, "For the Forge." Then he realized another question and asked, "Should not the Forgemaster present him to the Forge?" At this, she also shook her head, saying, "I will not be able to take him, after the birthing. It must be my Chief who carries him." Zorubaash looked into her eyes and saw the insistence in her eyes. He stroked her belly and felt that the child was now resting, saying, "I will carry him, with honor."

The next morning, Zorubaash rose with his wives and prepared to escort Regent Sara to Lady Effrix's court, where they would meet with the other landlords and lay all before the leaders of Venzor. It would be an untruth to say that the mighty chieftain was not a little bit uncertain of what would happen when he told them everything, but he had resolved to prepare them for what was to come. They could no longer rest in their corner of the world. Darkness was creeping everywhere, and even the people of Venzor had already been touched by it. Now it grew stronger and more bold. They would also need to be bold and gather their resolve. Hagurth and Mazoga finished before him, as they had less gear to wear for their daily duties. As they made to leave, they stopped before their chieftain and Mazoga said, "Will my Chief return before the evening?" He looked up from buckling his boots, and replied, "If all goes well, I should be back before the forge is silent." Mazoga simply nodded and left the tent. Hagurth lingered, however, drawing closer to him, as she said, "Will my Chief be taking us, tonight." He gave her a playful smile and asked in return, "Would that please my wives?" She leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, "That's the plan, my Chief." As she drew her head away from his, he gripped the back of it, and pulled her in for a passionate kiss, saying, "As my wives will."

Zorubaash approached the abbey, at a trot, and noticed that Regent Sara and Wrona were already waiting. Wrona looked over to him, from her seat on the carriage and said, "You are late, Chief Zorubaash. Did you misplace something?" Zorubaash grimaced slightly and said, "I was...detained. I had chieftain duties to fulfill, first." Wrona leaned over her seat, as he approached and his ear was closer to her, asking quietly, "Chieftain duties or a husband's?" He shot a sideways glance at her and noticed that she looked down to his breeches. His eyes followed hers and noticed that his breeches had not been completely fastened, in his haste. He cleared his throat to hide an embarrassed laugh, cinched up the leather straps, and adjusted his belt, before opening the door and climbing into the carriage, opposite Wrona and Sara. Along the way to Venzor and Lady Effrix's court, they discussed what would be said and the order of things. Regent Sara was obviously nervous, but she took comfort in the surety of their action. Wrona was her usual calm and calculated self. She carried her spear, on the trip, but only as a habit. The blade of the spear was wrapped and bound, to show that it was not meant for practical use, at that time. Zorubaash had also wrapped his blade, as he did not wish to cause alarm and would not be relinquishing it to anyone other than his Forgemaster, even at the insistence of Lady Effrix or her guards. It was the symbol of his people and of his status. Only the Forgemaster was worthy to receive it from him, in ceremony or within the forge.

Eventually, they arrived at the mountain keep of Lady Effrix and proceeded up the stone stairs to the small courtyard with three entrances. Zorubaash recalled when he first arrived in Venzor and curiously explored the area, after having been shown to Sanzor to consult with him about the brand on his leg. He looked to his left and saw the entrance to the chapel of Moradin, its vaulted door being flanked by two mighty dwarven statues. Even in its spartan appearance, it carried the sure lines and steady patterns of dwarven craftsmanship. As he swept the room, his gaze passed over the entrance to the mines, directly across from the stairway they had just crested. This doorway was encrusted with polished stones and gems, and inlaid with precious metals that had been recovered from the mountain. It was obviously something more to the liking of Narvi's brother, and Zorubaash gave a smirk, as he remembered meeting him outside the door, before the Rats had entered to take care of the Basilisk problem. He briefly wondered what had ever happened to the Basilisk egg Krell had recovered from the creatures' nest, but dismissed the thought quickly, as his sweeping gaze eventually came to their destination. There was no ornaments adorning the doorway to Lady Effrix keep. It was plain and more businesslike than those of the temple and the mine, much like Lady Effrix herself. Outside the doorway were the usual guards on duty, but this time, Tharkum stood there, waiting for them. He bowed to Regent Sara and then nodded to Wrona and Zorubaash. Zorubaash recalled when he had first met Tharkum and the circumstances that eventually landed Kleatus and himself in the Lady Effrix prison for a short time. He was merely a wanderer, then, not even a Rat. It was there that Kleatus had found his pet rat, Skribbles, who would later give birth to the others. It was there that he and Kleatus had become more than just acquaintances. He marveled at how strange his meetings were with all his friends. From all walks of life and from all corners of the map, they had met each other, and they became the Band of the Noble Rat. Now he came as chieftain of the Forgeborn, to speak as leader for his people and defender of the town of Venzor. He almost began to laugh, as the hilarity of the situation washed over him, but he kept his composure and remained silent.

Tharkum led them through the main hall of the keep, and Zorubaash again recalled the feast they had received after completing a great quest for the Lady. He also remembered Kleatus and Darth being more than a little belligerent. Darth wound up on his backside outside the doors, while Kleatus had found himself in the bed of Lady Effrix's late Captain of the Guard. Not much was said between the current companions, as they walked through the keep and to the court of Lady Effrix, aside from Zorubaash asking Tharkum if he had been sparring much, to which Tharkum had gruffly replied his regret at having too much work to spar as much as he would like, anymore. Zorubaash again offered his willingness to spar with his old teacher, whenever he could find the time, and Tharkum had thanked him, gruffly. Eventually, they approached the final door, and the guards opened it for them. Tharkum led the way, announcing their arrival and then taking his place beside Lady Effrix at the long meeting table. Regent Sara, Wrona, and Zorubaash each bowed as the entered and then took their seats. Zorubaash looked around the table and noticed that all of the notable leaders within Venzor had shown up for the meeting. Lady Effrix could be quite insistent, when she wanted to be, and she had obviously insisted on this. Zorubaash noticed that the eyes of Count Vorn of the southern-most county never left him, and he nodded his acknowledgement of the count's gaze. Count Vorn nodded, silently, in reply. After all were seated and settled, Lady Effrix called the meeting to order and motioned for Regent Sara to begin. Sara stood, hesitantly, looking to Zorubaash for strength. He nodded, sternly, with a wink, and she breathed deeply to steady herself, before she spoke, "I come here today as advocate for Chief Zorubaash of the Forgeborn and esteemed member of the Band of the Noble Rat. He wishes to address the leaders of Venzor and the Lady. He has already consulted with me, and I believe all would be wise to head his words, this day. A terrible threat lies just outside Venzor and even beyond. He has come to inform you of the gravity of this threat and to petition for your aid."

At her words, there were murmurs amongst the other counts and whispers amongst their wives and advisers. She sat back down, and sighed with relief. Zorubaash gently squeezed her knee, under the table, and gave her a slight nod of reassurance. This would be a decisive time for Venzor, as well as for his people and the Rats. Either the court would listen and rally with them, or they would be on their own and possibly outcast. She knew this, and yet she still represented him. He knew how heavy it must have been for her to shoulder. Now he would have to take his turn. Lady Effrix acknowledged Zorubaash, and he rose to his feet, saying, "Tank you, Lady Effrix, for dis audience, and tank you, Countess Regent Sara, for being my advocate." He then addressed all those assembled, "Two years ago, I vas brought to h'your town as a vounded vanderer. De City Guard had found me and my companions in de dungeon of a dark sorcerer. De sorcerer vas never caught, dough. He has continued to gather power and spread his corruption across de lands." He looked down upon Sara's scarred features and then back at the room, as he continued, "Even Venzor has been marked by his darkness. H'while vee, de Rats, von great victories for de people of Venzor and aided de guard in dehr investigations, vee found more of de sorcerer's taint. It vas he who had cursed de Hall of de Noble Rats. Vee found his accomplice, a vile hag, ruined in an old hut, just outside de town, vit de stink ov his sorcerery all around it. Now, dehr are giants leaving dehr hills and raiding smaller towns and villages. From vot Wrona has told me, some of dese giants bear de mark of dat same sorcerer." He scanned the room, and all were silent, some with their eyes wide in terror. "Vee believe dat de giants are raiding de towns to gather supplies for war and sacrifices to fuel de sorcerer's blood magic. If vee hesitate to crush the giants, it vill only be a matter of time before dey come for Venzor. Vee are here to tell you of dis threat and ask for h'your help in stopping dese giants. Vill h'you aid us?"

For a moment, no one spoke, as Zorubaash took his seat next to Sara, then everyone erupted with exclamations, questions, and accusations. "Why are you only telling us now? How long have you known?...What is his name? Give us a name! We demand a name!...This is probably a trick! He's got his own army just outside the town. Maybe he wants us to send our guards so he can raid the town himself!...That's right! Him and the Rats! They threatened my family for no reason!...What are we gonna do, if the giants come?...How can we fight an unseen sorcerer?...Oh, this is terrible! The mine would be plundered. All those riches!...Riches?! What of our farms? They would be ruined! We would be ruined!...How can you do this to us? I thought you were protectors. You brought this on Venzor! You tricked us!...Yeah! Didn't he call himself 'Goremash' before? Why has he changed his name? Maybe it's an Orc trick!...Where are the Rats? Why aren't they here, too? Maybe they knew this was coming and left us here..."

Only a handful of people remained silent in the court. Lady Effrix and Tharkum seemed to be in a low conversation between one another. Zorubaash knew they were taking the threat seriously and likely planning countermeasures and preparations. Wrona was also silent, but scribbling furiously in her journal, likely gleaning information from the frantic conversations and reactions. Vorn only stared at Zorubaash, and he returned his gaze, gauging his possible opponent. Vorn's gaze did not waiver, except for a brief moment, to look at Sara, then back to Zorubaash. Zorubaash broke his stare and looked over to Sara, who was now shaking. He made to comfort her, but stopped short. He noticed that her fist was clenched so tight that her knuckles had gone white. Her scarred face, however, had become a deep red, the color of rage. Then she erupted and sprung to her feet, slamming her fist upon the great table, shouting, "ENOUGH! All of you simpering cowards and spineless politicians, ENOUGH!" In an instant, the room fell silent, and all eyes stared at the fuming Regent. "I have sat here and listened to your wingeing, while death and horror knocks at our very door. Is this all you can do? Hurl insults, play politics, blame others, and whine about yourselves?! I came from nothing, but I was happy, with my family! I was taken from my daughter, tortured, and almost transformed into a monster!" At this, she furiously pulled up her left sleeve, revealing her scarred stump, and glared at each of them, defiantly. "Zorubaash and the Rats rescued me, protected my daughter, and saved this petty town! We hailed them as heroes, then, and now you turn on him...on them?! They gave us a future! They gave us their sweat and their blood, and this is how we repay them?!" She let her sleeve fall back over her ruined arm, breathed deeply, calming herself. When she spoke again, her words were filled with ice, "You disgust me. Not one of you are half as noble as the chieftain. He came here to help you all, to save Venzor once again, and all you can think about is yourselves." She looked to him, and he could see tears of unbridled emotion welling up in her eyes. "Countess Abyth and I stand with the Rats, our saviors. We will not abandon them, ever!"

Zorubaash didn't say anything, he couldn't. He simply stared in wonder at Sara, as the tears began to quench her burning cheeks. Now he knew the resolve of his friends. He saw the fire in her, and he smiled in thanks. He rose and embraced her, warmly, as she began to sob into his cloak. He whispered to her, "H'you are zo strong, Sara. Vee only found h'you. H'you fought for h'yourself and for h'your daughter, den. Vee vill fight for h'you, now...Tank you." He only held her then, while she sobbed, silently. No one spoke. All the accusers had fallen silent, in shame and defeat. Then Zorubaash heard Count Vorn begin to clap his gloved hands, as he rose from his chair. He turned to Lady Effrix and said, "The County of Vorn stands with Chief Zorubaash and the Band of the Noble Rat. We will add our bows to the fight." He then looked to Zorubaash and nodded, before taking his seat, again. Zorubaash nodded his thanks. Then another Count spoke up, "The Rats returned my daughter's body to us, after those cultists took her. We will not dishonor her memory. We stand with the Band of the Noble Rat." Narvi's brother then spoke, "If it weren't for the Rats, we wouldn't have a mine. My clan stands with the Band of the Noble Rat. We will add our mettle to theirs." One by one, others joined in declaring their aid, while some only slumped in their chairs, deflated. Finally, Lady Effrix rose and spoke in her northern accent, "It seems ya've convinced the caurt, Chief Zorubaash an' Regent Sara. Venzor remembers aht's heroes. Venzor stands with the Bahnd ah the Noble Raht." She indicated for everyone to take there seats, and Zorubaash helped Sara into hers. She was exhausted, but he could still see that fire.

The rest of the meeting was spent sharing information and making plans. Wrona spoke mainly about the giants and what her informants had found up to that point. Zorubaash offered that he would lead a warband of Forgeborn, with the aid of Gurgnir in a raid on the giants to test their defenses and find their leader. Vorn and Tharkum offered a war party of their own to back them up. Other Counts discussed supplies and resources to bolster the war parties and fortify the town. It was also decided that the Forgeborn, the guards, and a contingent of Vorn's mounted archers would patrol the counties, in case the giants tried to raid the lightly defended counties. All of patrols would be equipped with messaging paper from Spellbook, to relay urgent messages and call aid if it was needed. Everyone agreed to have them keep an eye out for dark sorcery, as well, and that they would contact the residing Rats, including Darth, if any was detected. Eventually, the meeting ended, and Zorubaash headed back to the abbey, with Sara and Wrona. Before they left, Lady Effrix had thanked them for coming forward with this information and for helping Venzor all the times before. The sun was beginning to set, as the Abbey came into view, and Zorubaash felt as if he'd been in battle, the entire day. Regant Sara had sat beside him in the carriage, for support, and he looked down to see that she had fallen asleep against his cloak. He looked up to Wrona, who only smiled and then motioned to the sending stone in his belt. He nodded with understanding and sent a message to Allen to have Brak meet them at the carriage and for everyone to be quiet. When they stopped at the abbey, Brak was already waiting. Zorubaash emerged, with Sara in his arms, and he passed her off, carefully, to her lover. Before he took her to the manor, Zorubaash leaned in and spoke to his brother, "She fought for us, brother. She is very strong. She bloodied many ears, today." Brak looked at him and smiled, with pride. "I know, brother," he said, cradling her with affection. "It's one of the things I love about her." Zorubaash nodded silently and patted his old friend on the shoulder, as they headed off to the manor. Wrona emerged from the cart, bowed to the chieftain, and said, "I didn't know you could be so sweet, Gore." Zorubaash struck a pose of mock indignation, saying, "Well, maybe you don't know everything, mighty cleric." She cocked a wry smile and replied, "Not yet, anyway." They laughed, quietly, and he waived at her, as she made her way to the abbey. Then he turned and headed to his camp.


	7. Arrivals and Omens, Pt. 2

Zorubaash intended to stop at the forge and let Mazoga know that he had returned, but as he neared the camp, one of his warriors ran out to meet him. The warrior saluted, breathing heavily, and Zorubaash returned the salute, asking, "What is it, my warrior?" The warrior replied, "It is the Forgemaster, my Chief. The birthing..." Zorubaash didn't wait for him to finish. He took off at a full sprint toward Mazoga's tent, the warrior keeping pace behind him. As he darted through the camp, he could see his people outside their tents, waiting. A small crowd had gathered around the Forgemaster's tent and barely had time to step aside, as their chieftain came barreling through, spurred on by the cries he could hear coming from inside. He burst through the door, breathlessly, and beheld Mazoga kneeling upon the bed, naked and in labor, with Hagurth and other women of the camp fussing about. "I am here, Forgemaster!" he declared through gasps, which seemed to match her own panting. She roared, and then went back to panting, as she finished pushing. She looked at her chieftain, and he saw a look of relief on her face, "My Chief has returned!" He removed his cloak and Hagurth retrieved it from him. Noticing that the blade was still bound upon his back, she whispered for him to unwrap it and wear it visibly. He obeyed, hurriedly, as he did not want to interrupt anything important. He only wanted to be with his Forgemaster and add his strength to hers.

Another contraction gripped her, and she roared as she pushed. "My Chief, he is so very impatient...just like his father." He crept nearer to her face, being cautious not to incur the wrath of a laboring mother, saying, "And he is strong, just like his mother." She glared up at him, bearing her tusks, as she finished pushing. One of the other women spoke from behind the Forgemaster, "One more push, Forgemaster. The child arrives soon." She looked at him, and he stared back. Her brow was covered in the sweat of her labor and her features were fierce. He realized that she had never appeared more beautiful to him than as she was now. He nodded to her, saying, "He will add his metal to the Forge." She grimaced, sternly, bared her tusks again, and roared, "For the Forge!" Zorubaash joined her roar, egging her on. She reached her hand beneath her belly and between her legs to catch the child as it emerged. She held him at arms length, to her chieftain. "Bite the chord," she said. "And take him to the forge." He took the child and saw that he was indeed a son. He cut the cord with his tusks, and the child began to cry. She looked at him, exhausted, and said, "Go! To the forge." He nodded, dutifully, and quickly left the tent, as the baby cried. The crowd had already parted, in silence, all eyes watching the chieftain emerge. He marched at a quick pace towards the forge tent, and the people followed him. Everyone had left their tents and watched him, with anticipation. He approached and saw that the door to the forge tent had been left open, its heat spilling out into the night, as smiths continued to hammer the anvils and work the bellows. He could feel their fire, and the music of the hammers called to him. The baby also heard the sound and began to cry louder. Zorubaash raised the baby, cupped in his hands, over his head and towards the forge, saying, "I come with a son! He cries to the Forge! Its fire will temper his steel and make him strong!" Then he turned towards the camp, still holding the baby up, and declared, "The Forgemaster has born a son! He cries to his people! His metal has been added to the Forge, and he will be a mighty blade for the Forgeborn!" The people had gathered before him and roared as one, "And we carry him with honor!"

As the roars died down, Zorubaash noticed that the baby had grown silent. He pulled him close, wondering if he had become too cold, but saw only that he had calmed down and opened his eyes. He looked at his son, with great pride, and began to laugh, with joy. The Forgeborn gathered around their chieftain and looked at his son, joining him in his rejoicing. He noticed that the hammering had stopped and even the smiths had joined the crowd, cooing at the baby and baring their tusks with gladness. For a moment, Zorubaash looked around, not knowing what to do, then one of the smiths leaned in and asked, "Will my Chief return the baby to his mother?" Startled, Zorubaash nodded, abruptly, and began to make his way through the crowd and towards Mazoga's tent. Behind him, he heard sounds of celebration, and he wondered if the camp would sleep that night. This thought only made him smile broader and begin to laugh, again. The baby didn't cry. He only looked up at the chieftain, in wonder. Zorubaash shouldered aside the tent flap and entered, clutching the baby close to his pounding heart. Inside, he saw that Mazoga had been bedded down and that Hagurth was wiping away her sweat and giving her water. The other women quickly exited the tent, carrying basins and soiled hides. One carried a covered basin, and Zorubaash thought better than to ask. Soon, it was only them in the tent, staring at one another, with relief. The baby began to cry, and it jolted Zorubaash out of his trance. Mazoga spoke up, "He smells his mother. If my Chief wills, I would see my son." Zorubaash smiled warmly, as he crossed the tent and placed the baby in his mother's arms. "A son," he said, still unable to form complete sentences from all the excitement. As the baby began to suckle, Mazoga looked up and said, "A son, for my Chief." Zorubaash looked at his wife, with pride and replied, "A son, for the Forge." She smiled and began to talk to the baby, as he and Hagurth climbed upon the bed next to her, marveling at the first son of Chief Zorubaash and the unbroken Forgeborn."

...

Eventually, they had all fallen asleep, the baby upon Mazoga's chest, with Hagurth and Zorubaash slumped in the bed, beside her, their arms wrapped around the Forgemaster and cradling the baby. In the early morning, Zorubaash and Hagurth awoke, out of habit, but the baby and his mother still slept. They made ready for the day, and Hagurth told him that the Forgemaster would not be attending the lighting ceremony and that he would need to go in her place, to watch. He looked over to mother and child, with longing, but Hagurth reassured him, saying, "My Chief worries for his family, but they are well. The forge will ring in celebration, this day. My Chief must go to listen and carry the music of the Forge with him, when he returns." He looked back to her, and she smiled, warmly. She placed a hand on his cheek, and he leaned down to her for a kiss. He then left them within the tent and went to the forge. Already, the smiths had opened the flaps and were bringing wood into the forge for lighting the fires. They knew their duties, and the ceremony came as naturally to them as breathing. For his people, this was part of the life that burned within them all. He had never known the forge to be silent and still, and he did not expect it, now. This was a time of celebration, not mourning or loss, and so the forge would ring out, its steady song carrying over the camp and into the hearts of his people.

After the lighting ceremony and the blessing of the forges, the smiths thanked the chieftain and offered their congratulations. He would remember their words and carry them to Mazoga. As he was leaving the tent, he saw Hagurth sending a group of warriors into the forest. He strolled up, inquiring about their mission. Hagurth smiled, broadly, and replied, "There must be food for the celebration, my Chief." He looked after them, and the hunt called to him. He made ready to follow, but Hagurth stopped him, stating that it was their honor to bring food for the celebration. All trophies taken on the hunt would be for the baby, so that he would be strong. The food would be brought to the mother, so that she would be strong for the baby. The rest of the camp would feast and celebrate with the chieftain, so that he would be proud. He looked to her, and simply said, "I don't know if I could be any more proud of him, of her, and of my people." She smirked, rubbing her own belly and saying, "Just wait, my Chief." He laughed at this and enjoyed the friendly competition between Hagurth and Mazoga, but he would be proud of all of them, just the same. Hagurth then shooed him back to Mazoga's tent, and he left at a trot, both chuckling, as he left. There was much joy in the camp, and even the men and women on patrol or at their chores would look up and offer congratulations to the chieftain and the Forgemaster.

Approaching the Forgemaster's tent, he moved aside the flap, and stepped inside, still smiling from all the accolades of his people. As his eyes crossed to the bed, where his wife and child slept, he froze, as terror gripped his heart. There, next to the bed, looming over their sleeping bodies, stood a cloaked figure, and he knew who it was. He made to roar an alarm, but the words were stopped in his mouth, as a sinister hand held a finger to thin lips and shushed him. The figure didn't turn towards him. It only spoke, "My my! What a lovely little child for the weak chieftain. So new, so delicate, so full of life." Zorubaash made to move on the figure and choke the life out of him, but he could not. His feet were rooted to the floor, and all his muscles had frozen. He could only glare daggers at the man. Syrdar chuckled at the chieftain's futile struggle and continued, "You have been busy, little Zorubaash. I wonder what Raashazur or Braakam would say if they knew you had joined with another clan, taken wives, and made a family other than the Bloodfists." He then turned to the chieftain, and Zorubaash saw a wicked smile upon his face. "They were brave, you know? They tried so hard to resist, saying 'this is not the way', but I took them, in the end, just like all your people. They are mine, now. Only you remain, my little, wayward wanderer. Your resistance is charming, powerless chieftain, but I wonder if you would trade yourself for these people..." He looked back to the baby, and continued, "For your son?" Rage erupted within Zorubaash. He knew the sorcerer spoke only lies to torment him. Even if the words were true, they were poison. He willed his limbs to move and drew the hammer from his belt, while Syrdar loomed over the chieftain's family, mumbling and cackling to himself. Zorubaash raised the hammer and drove the spike into his leg, roaring, "Liar! Deceiver! I will break your body upon the stones, and the Bear shall devour your soul! You will not have my people, now or ever!" He raked the claw of the hammer over the brand, ripping it and causing the blood to flow. Syrdar's image flickered, as shock at this sudden ability to tear free from his control was replaced by pain. The dark figure seemed to be shredded, screaming, as Zorubaash continued to maul the brand with the claw. He lunged at Syrdar, raising the hammer to strike true and crush his skull, but he merely turned to shadow and evaporated.

The strips of living shadow faded from existence, and Zorubaash found himself standing in the tent, just inside the doorway. There was no sign of Syrdar, but he felt the weight of the hammer in his hand, and blood gushed from his leg. The baby began to cry, and Mazoga awoke, looking to the baby and then noticing her chieftain. She saw the hammer and the blood and asked, hurriedly, "Is my Chief well? What has happened?" He didn't speak. He stuck the hammer back in his belt and crossed the tent with quick strides. He kissed her, deeply, and then checked the baby. Neither of them bore any marks or brands, and he breathed a sigh of relief, slumping upon the bed, beside them. Now Mazoga was truly puzzled, asking, "My Chief, what has happened?" He winced, as he bumped his wound against the bed, and began to treat it. As he dressed the mauled flesh, he said, "Syrdar was here, taunting me. He sought to take the baby and our people." He finished tying a bandage about his leg and said, "I will not let him have you, any of you. I would die before I let that monster take my people." She clutched the baby close to her, and said, "He was here? How?" Zorubaash stared across the tent, at nothing in particular, answering, "Probably some illusion. Spellbook's wards are powerful and our people ever watchful. He probably cast something small and sinister to slip through unnoticed, something without substance, like a shadow." She looked down at his leg, and asked, "A shadow did that to my Chief?" Zorubaash set his foot down, satisfied that he had treated the wound well enough, saying, "This? This was me." She looked at him with shocked scrutiny, and he continued, "I didn't know what allowed him through the wards and barriers, so I ruined the mark, in the hopes that it might break his focus. It worked, and his image evaporated. I found myself back in the spot I had been, and he was gone, without a trace." She thought for a moment and then looked back at him, asking, "Why does he persist? Is my Chief that valuable to his plans? Is he afraid?" Zorubaash shook his head, saying, "He thinks he does not fear anything, but all men who seek power, above all else, fear something. He is blind to his fear, which is foolish." He pondered for a moment and then spoke, "He is obsessed with me, I think, because I escaped...and because I am unique. Other orcs have been cut from their clans, but I am the only one I know of who left willingly. Perhaps I was a curiosity to him, once, but now he has grown more and more covetous. It is his weakness, and one we may need to exploit, some day." He grinned wolfishly, as the thought of laying a trap for Syrdar filled him with feral glee, especially if he was to be the bait. He didn't mind the danger. He just wanted to end the mad dog, once and for all. He then turned to her and said, sternly, "I will raise a mighty force to make war. The Forgeborn will be my blades for battle, and we will oppose the Flood and Syrdar's evil...for our people and for their future." He looked pointedly to the baby, placing his hand upon the child, who was suckling on his mother. She looked up at him, with fire in her eyes, and declared, "For the Forge."

...

As Zorubaash calmed down, he told Mazoga about what was said in Lady Effrix's court and of their plans to crush the giants under Syrdar's bidding. Mazoga had listened, as she cared for the baby, offering her insight and advice where it was needed. Zorubaash also pulled out the sending stone and passed a message to Allen, informing him of Syrdar's incursion and urging him to have Krell and Spellbook make a pass of the grounds for any lingering sorcerery and to check the wards. Eventually, however, they set business aside and simply enjoyed their time together, with the baby. She asked him what they should name him, and Zorubaash admitted that he had not thought to choose a name. He asked her for her thoughts, and she listed a few names but that there was no rush, as the naming ceremony wouldn't take place until the baby reached his first year. He liked seeing her this way, a mother to his son, as well as to her people. After a time, Hagurth entered with food for the new mother and took the baby, while Mazoga ate, cooing at him and showing her tusks, proudly. Zorubaash couldn't wait to see her as a mother, also, and he smiled broadly at her. She noticed his smile and returned her own. Zorubaash excused himself to go speak with the Rats in residence and share the news with his friends. Mazoga and Hagurth both nodded, and he left the tent, to the sounds of the women talking to the newborn and one another. Traveling through the camp, he saw his people preparing food and making ready for the feast. He looked forward to it, with great anticipation.

Along the way to the abbey, he passed Krell and Spellbook, filling them in on the details of his encounter with Syrdar. Krell checked his leg for any residual magic and mentioned that if there had been any, Zorubaash made good work of breaking it and marring the brand, so that Syrdar could not attempt the same trick twice. They offered their congratulations to the chieftain and then proceeded to the camp and the surrounding walls. He approached the abbey itself and noticed both Allen and Wrona setting the guards on patrols. He approached and greeted them, and they returned his greeting, mentioning that the first wagon of supplies would be arriving in the afternoon, along with the first batch of troops for the assault on the giants. The abbey would be the staging ground for mustering the troops and forming the war parties. Allen had already set servants to the task of preparing the grounds and clearing out room for the tents of the town guard and for Count Vorn's mounted archers. Wrona then looked at the chieftain, slyly, and asked, "What was all the commotion, last night? Your people seemed pretty excited." Zorubaash looked at her, with pride, and replied, "Mazoga had her child, my son, and his metal has been added to de Forge." At this news, Allen hopped about with excitement and then began to fret, as he often did, wondering if there was a proper gift they would need to bring to congratulate Mazoga and Zorubaash. Zorubaash only laughed, saying, "Peace, friend Allen. H'your joy iz gift enough for me. If h'you vould like to bring someting for Mazoga and de baby, feel free, but do not vorry zo. My people vill be feasting, tonight. I vould be honored to haff my friends join us...just be sure to bring plenty ov food and drink." He winked and went inside the abbey to spread the news and check on preparations for the war parties.

Abyth was beside herself, with glee, at the thought of a "baby Goremash". Even Nerwyne perked up at the news, although Zorubaash was unsure if it was because she liked babies or if she wondered what a new target would look like. Sara and Brak congratulated him, heartily, and readily accepted his invitation to the feast, promising to bring gifts, food, and drink. He checked in with Gurgnir and saw how he was settling in. He was restless and wanted to take the fight to his fellow giants, as soon as possible, but Zorubaash urged caution, as they weren't just dealing with giants but sorcery as well. Gurgnir finally relented and said he would be ready, whenever Zorubaash was prepared to fight. The chieftain had laughed and patted the small giant's leg, saying, "Iz good to fight, to hunt, to make war. Iz also good to enjoy life and de living of it. Besides, I tell h'you dat Chief Zorubaash iz generous, yes? Vee make h'you armor and weapon more h'your size, then vee are ready to crush servants of Syrdar." Hearing the name, Gurgnir growled low, like some terrible best. "How you know dat name?!" he demanded. Zorubaash looked at him, in surprise, answering, "Sev'ral giants verr felled raiding a village. Some ov dem bore mark of dark sorcerer, Syrdar. I know Syrdar bekause he try to mark me, too. He corrupt my people. He try to take de lives ov my friends. He try to take my son!" His voice had risen to a roar, at the accusation in Gurgnir's tone, but he calmed himself, seeing that the giant had meant no offense, only that he felt anger towards the sorcerer, as well. "I am no ally of Syrdar," he said, reassuringly. "I seek his head and vill crush any who stand vith him." At this, Gurgnir nodded, saying, "Then we fight giants." Zorubaash looked up at his ally and said, "Aye, Gurgnir. Vee fight giants."

That night was full of merriment in the Forgeborn camp, while the guard were bedding down near the abbey. Some asked the resident guards what all the commotion was about, and were informed of the chieftain's son and the congratulatory feast within the camp. Some expressed their desire to watch or partake but were advised against it, unless they had been invited by the chieftain. If Zorubaash could have his way, he would have invited all of Venzor, but as it was, he could not. Only the Band of the Noble Rat and Countess Abyth, along with her entourage, were allowed to attend, by preference of the Forgemaster. Zorubaash had acquiesced, as it was more a celebration for her and the baby than for himself. He only desired for her to be happy and for his son to grow strong, amongst his people, if he so desired. He was full of mirth, at the feast. His people ate and drank, sang and even danced. Cami joined the Forgeborn singers and musicians, and the camp was full of their rejoicing. He sat, next to his Forgemaster, soaking it all in, as he ate, drank, and laughed with the Rats and his people. At one point, he raised the ring to his face and sent a message to his friends far away. "Kleatus? It is a good night, here. We are celebrating the birth of my son. We will celebrate when you return, or when I come to get you. Be well, my brother. See you soon."

Abyth didn't leave Mazoga's side, at first, staring at the baby and asking as many questions as could pop out of her mouth. Mazoga was wise and patient, answering the questions as best she could, in turn. Eventually, Sara called her daughter over, to leave the matron and her baby alone for a little bit, and Nerwyne followed. Zorubaash couldn't quite gauge the moon elf's mood, as she stayed relatively passive and indifferent, but every once in a while, he noticed her watch the dancers, and he could see her tapping her feet to the rhythm of the music. He had asked if she wanted to dance with his people, and she had declined, flatly. He nodded in understanding but left the offer open, saying, "They vould velcome h'you, Nerwyne. H'you are Rat and friend to chieftain. My people velcome many and are good people, vith big hearts." She looked down, and he could see conflict behind her eyes. He carefully rested a hand on her shoulder saying, "I cannot return your parents to h'you, nor can I erase dose terrible memories. I can only offer h'you a chance to see dat vee are not all brutes. Vee are people, too. And vee love h'you, little sister." She looked up at him, abruptly, but didn't say anything. He couldn't quite tell if she wanted to hug him or stab him, which could have been the same impulse in her mind. He smiled back, warmly, patting her shoulder. She went back to watching the dancers, and he decided to leave her be, so he sat back up and rejoined the celebration.

Eventually, the music calmed and the dancers returned to their seats. Hagurth then approached the chieftain, holding something in her arms. As she presented the item to her chieftain, he noticed that she carried his pan flute, made from the bones of his enemies. She had procured it from the Forgemaster's tent and asked if he would play for his people, something from his adventures or from his homeland. He took the flute and thought for a moment, as the revelers became quiet, watching the chieftain in anticipation. He thought of a song to play, one from his homeland, telling the story of a great hunter in his legends. He stood and dedicated the song to his son, that he might grow strong like the hunter in the legend. As he began to play, all eyes were fixed upon him. The warm notes carried over the crowd and called images into their mind's eye visions of the hunt, great beasts, and mighty victories.

He continued to play and noticed that Nerwyne stood and walked towards the bonfire. She drew her blades, and he almost stopped the music. Then he saw her begin to dance. It was not the usual bladesong dance that he had seen her perform in combat. This dance matched the notes of his flute. They were smooth and graceful, as if she were dancing upon the notes themselves. He continued to play, with more passion. She danced, and as her face would turn in her spins and twirls, he began to see a smile trace itself across her delicate face. He did not stop, nor did she. When he would play clashing notes to denote combat in the song, he saw her use the tip of her blades to flick stones into the bonfire, without stopping the dance and sending sparks sailing into the night sky. It was as if the song had come to life in her dancing. On and on went the song and the dancer. By the time the song reached its conclusion, he could see a broad smile upon her face. Though she did not laugh, he saw the sparkle of joy in her eyes. The song ended on a high chord, and Nerwyne leapt in the air to catch it, tumbling with it, and landed gracefully, as the song ended. Suddenly, she realized that all eyes were now on her, even the chieftain's, and she recovered her composure, sheathing her swords, silently, as everyone simply stared in amazement. She stood, a dark silhouette against the dwindling bonfire, and for a moment nobody moved. All had been entranced by the spell of soaring song and graceful dance. Then everyone erupted with cheers and praise. Nerwyne walked quickly towards her seat, clearly embarrassed and uncertain, but as she passed Mazoga, the Forgemaster turned in her seat and said, "Thank you, little one, for the gift." Nerwyne nodded, silently, and saw the baby staring at her. She cocked a smile at him and then made her way to her seat. Zorubaash simply beamed, while everyone cheered. As she sat, she looked over to the chieftain, who bowed in thanks to the dancer. She nodded, and then Abyth glomped her, shouting praises in her excitement. Zorubaash and Mazoga both chuckled, and the baby simply stared at them.

The celebration reached its inevitable conclusion, as the fire died down into mere embers, and the Forgeborn began to clear the table and go about their nightly duties. Zorubaash thanked the Rats and Abyth's family for attending, and they too left for their beds. Zorubaash and his wives returned to the Forgemaster's tent, and made ready for bed. As Mazoga lay upon the bed with her baby, however, Hagurth began to flirt with her chieftain. In truth, she had been flirting with him all night, and his reluctance to join in the flirting, out of his sense of duty to the occasion of the celebration, only seemed to stoke her fire and embolden her advances. She helped him remove his clothing, even though he was still fairly sober and capable of handling the task himself. He was not used to someone removing his pants in such a forceful manner and stumbled, landing on his back and hitting his head against the foot of the bed, which jolted and startled the baby. Mazoga chided them and then shooed the rowdy lovers out of the tent, so she and the baby could sleep. Zorubaash and Hagurth quickly scampered out of the tent, not wishing to incur the wrath of the mother bear, and found a secluded spot to reacquaint themselves. Eventually, they returned to the tent, for a few hours of sleep, deciding to sleep on the floor, so as not to wake the Forgemaster and her son. It was a good night, and as Zorubaash drifted off to sleep, with Hagurth snuggled against him, he wondered if he would have many more like this.

...

Morning came, and with it, the duties of a chieftain, or more appropriately, a Warchief. After the lighting ceremony, he met with Brak and Gurgnir to gather timber within the forest. Interestingly, Rolling Thunder, the centaur they had helped and who was now staying with them, had volunteered to come with them. Zorubaash welcomed his assistance, as it made the gathering of timber and the return trip faster and with fewer incidents. Once they finished assembling a large, make-shift forge, they began to work the materials. The first thing they made was armor for Gurgnir. They heated the plates of metal over a large pit of coals. They stoked the coals with Gurgnir's lungs blowing gently on the massive bed of coals to coax them white hot. Brak showed Zorubaash how to shape the armor over a large, rounded slab of granite they had found in the forest. Gurgnir held the metal in place, while Brak and Zorubaash and Brak worked the steel with large hammers. Once they shaped one side, the metal was quenched in a large trough of water, Gurgnir would then stick the metal back into the coals, leaving a good half of it out for him to grab onto. They worked the other sides, and the plates took shape. They decided that a simple, layered metal design would work best for ease of smithing and to provide Gurgnir with good movement. The task took all day long, and Zorubaash silently wished George and Enis were around to aid with the heating an hammering. They took breaks for meals and water, as needed. Occasionally, Zorubaash would slip away, to check on Mazoga and the baby, but she would shoo him away, assuring him that they were fine.

At one point, Hagurth approached with her hand-picked warriors, and Zorubaash took a break from working the steel to give them instructions on the drills they were to practice. She looked at him, lustfully, as he was covered in sweat and soot from the forge, wearing a heavy leather apron over his broad shoulders and down his chiseled midsection, partially obscuring his buckskin breeches. In her eyes, he was the image of the unbroken Forgeborn, second only to the Forgemaster, herself. He cocked an eyebrow in her direction but continued with their orders. For the first few days, he would have the warriors run an agility course amongst a patch of boulders he had found in the forest, to simulate navigating the glaciers and climbing the rocky outcroppings. He told Hagurth not to go easy on them and that they were to be ready for combat with any intruding beasts at a moment's notice, as the wastes would not forgive a single mistake and the creatures of the mountain would swoop in to devour them. After the day of training, they were to try and scale the border wall, again simulating another aspect of the frozen wastes. He knew his people had the strength and endurance for the training, he needed her to hammer skill and instinct into them. She nodded, dutifully, and set them to the task, while she traveled with them to watch. Zorubaash had insisted that she take Rolling Thunder with them, should something lumber through the forest that could not be overcome and they would need to retreat to safety. She did not question her chieftain and even appreciated the concern for their well-being and that of her unborn child. He understood that he would eventually need to take over their training, but for now, he had a project to finish.

Eventually, the plates for the front of Gurgnir's hauberk were finished. It wasn't the best work he had seen, but both Zorubaash and Brak were pleased. Zorubaash was pretty sure the Forgeborn wouldn't appreciate them, but he knew they would hold up well in a fight. They covered the pit of coals with a sheet of scrap metal they would not use and dropped the remaining sides of the tent, to keep out the elements. Brak let them know that he would light the forge and stoke the fires early in the morning, so that they could start as soon as Zorubaash arrived. They all agreed and departed for their beds. As Zorubaash approached the Forgemaster's tent, he noticed that Hagurth was waiting outside. He made to greet her, but she shushed him, stating that Mazoga and the baby were already asleep. He poked his head in to check and noticed that they were indeed both fast asleep. Before he could stealthily enter and begin to disrobe, Hagurth gripped his arm and led him to her tent, nearby. As soon as they entered, clothing and the leather apron were flung about the tent, as the passion they had kept bottled up from their morning meeting exploded. Zorubaash realized that Hagurth was taking advantage of the fact that Mazoga was busy with the baby and in no mood to entertain any of his advances. He did not mind, however, as he understood that Hagurth was younger and had a much larger appetite for this revelry. He wanted to keep his wives happy, even if it meant leaving one alone and pouring extra attention upon the other.

He remembered the first time he had taken her and how uncertain she had seemed, despite being experienced. She didn't fear him, nor did she doubt her own abilities, but she did not know how to act before her chieftain in that situation. They had found the path together, however, and now she held nothing back. It had also surprised him that it was Mazoga who had insisted that he take a second wife. Granted, he understood that Mazoga had recognized his desires for Hagurth, well before he had ever admitted it, but he had not expected her to be the one to encourage their coupling. He had expressed his concerns, then, wanting to follow Forgeborn traditions as much as possible, but she had dismissed them, stating that it was the woman's choice if she would accept a mate and that she had already accepted Hagurth as a worthy partner for him. Ultimately, it was up to Hagurth if she would accept the position as second wife. He almost laughed out loud at how clumsy he had been in courting her. He had gone on a midnight hunt, as Mazoga had instructed, and left the prey at the doorway to her tent, with a white hand print upon it, signifying that he was offering her sustenance and companionship. The next day, he did his best not to look at her, as he did not want to break tradition, but every now and then he would catch her looking in his direction, and he would either avert his gaze or shift his path, entirely. He felt really awkward doing this, as his people usually just took someone they were interested in, be it the man taking the woman or the other way around. Both parties were usually willing, but for brutal, Bloodfist orcs, it was not always the case. If the coupling was successful, then they would become a pair, in the sight of the clan. If not, then one of the partners usually wound up dead, as either could reject the advances of the other, violently. The Forgeborn, however, did things differently, and Zorubaash had wanted to follow their ways, as best he could.

For three nights he went on hunts, always leaving the prize at the doorway of his desired mate and leaving. After the first night, he was certain that she waited behind the tent flap, but she did not emerge or even lift the flap. She waited, as the Forgeborn do, for the ritual to run its course. For four days, he avoided her gaze, seeking to go about his business as usual, while keeping his glances from her, as well. He truly did not enjoy this part of the custom, but he followed their ways, as he had decided and Mazoga had insisted. He wondered by the third day if this was a test in and of itself, as he was certain that Hagurth knew it was he who laid the slain animals at her door, every night. Would they keep to tradition, or would they let their impulsiveness get the better of them? He had resolved to stay the course, and on the fourth night, he slew a mighty bear, taking its still dripping hide and covering himself with it. He lay at her doorstep as an offering. This he really didn't like, but Mazoga had explained on third night that it was hers to choose if she would take the final offering of his affection or leave it in the cold. If she left him there all night, that would be the end of it, and the warrior must not ever seek her again. Mazoga had also explained that this was a tradition carried down since the first chieftain had sought a bride from a neighboring clan. Neither of the lovers' parents agreed to their courtship, so they tested them. By the third night, the lovers realized they would never be allowed to wed, so the son disguised himself as one of his offerings. When the daughter had opened her tent to receive the offering, she wept, knowing that it would be the last she would ever receive from her beloved. As she wept, he took her hand, and she had recoiled, thinking that the beast was still alive. She fled into the tent for a weapon, and the lover followed, trying to stop her. She struck at him, in fear, and he died in her arms. She wept bitter tears and cried to the Forge to reunite her with her lover. In the morning, only two silhouettes of ash were found inside the tent. The Forge had answered, and their bodies were cast into the stars, to live forever in the eyes of their people. In their grief and shame, the Chieftains reached a truce, and swore that never would they keep love apart between their tribes, so long as they followed the test and remained true to their commitment of the ritual.

Remembering her story filled him with resolve, and so he waited, watching the stars from the corner of his eyes and listening for Hagurth. He didn't have to wait long, as he had barely settled upon the ground and begun to listen, before the tent flap was moved aside and he felt a hand upon his pelt covered shoulder. He had turned to her and saw a look of relief cross her face. In that moment, he remembered another part of Mazoga's tale. If the man did not wish to continue the courtship, he would leave a final gift at the woman's door, indicating that he wished her well but had given up the hunt. In that instant, he wondered if Hagurth had doubted he would continue. On that night, however, she had welcomed him into her tent and received him, with much vigor. They had lain upon the pelt that he wore then, both covered in the blood of the beast and the sweat of their passion. The next day, the pelt was tanned and remained in her tend, displaying that it was his bed, whenever he desired her.

As they lay upon the pelt, her belly now swollen with his other child, he felt it kick against his mighty arm. He rolled over and placed his other hand on the side, and he felt another kick. He looked down, with curiosity, and honed his senses to detect if it would happen again. He waited, and Hagurth noticed his stillness and could feel his anticipation. She made to ask what he was feeling for, and he shushed her. Then it happened again. Two kicks, almost at the same time and in completely different places along her stomach. He looked up at her, and realization flashed across both their faces. Twins! Hagurth carried twins inside her belly. Excitement overwhelmed them, in that moment, and they surrendered to their passion, again, that night.

The next day, they slipped back into the Forgemaster's tent, and told her of what they had learned the night before. Mazoga was her usual calm self, but Zorubaash heard the excitement in her words. It was rare for women of the clan to bear twins, and it usually marked a great omen. She assured Hagurth that she would personally attend her birthing and that both she and the chieftain would carry Hagurth's children to the forge for the ceremony. Hagurth thanked her, reverently, and Zorubaash had nodded with a firm resolve. He would not miss the ceremony, even if it meant tearing through a hundred dragons to reach them. After a brief conversation, Zorubaash dressed himself and attended the lighting ceremony at the forge, gave the day's regimen to the chosen warriors, and joined Brak and Gurgnir at their forge for another day of hard work. This day, however, the hammer felt lighter, and even their make-shift forge seemed to ring with the music of his people.

...

The days passed, and the two finished the plated hauberk for Gurgnir, having him try it on for fit and feel. He had beamed, stating, "Gurgnir mighty warrior! Gurgnir Tomb Breaker, revenging warrior!" Brak and Zorubaash had joined in his celebration, being sure to take note of how it moved and flexed as he pranced about. They knew there would need to be some adjustments, but they had indeed made a sturdy piece of armor for their ally. Next, they set to the task of shaping the dragon bone into a mighty maul for Gurgnir. They used one of the dragon's femurs, taking off the ball that fit in to the socket of the pelvis and shaving down the rest into a smooth dowel shape, making sure not to shave off too much and weaken the bone. They then forged iron bands that would hold the wood in place for the handle, along with a ring pommel from which would hang a spiked ball and chain. It was Brak's flavor to the weapon, and Zorubaash had welcomed the idea. They also crafted a round hilt for the maul, to protect Gurgnir's hands and keep the wood from sliding up the maul, just as the pommel would keep it from sliding off. With much effort, they drilled two holes into the bone to drive rivets through and secure the handle, firmly. Then they assembled the weapon, using Brak's knowledge of making barrels for the town to press iron bands in places about the bone and lining up the holes for the rivets. Then the pommel and hilt were secured, with pitch and sinew, so that they could be removed for repairs, if needed, but would hold fast during a fight. Afterwards, they set to wrapping the handle in moistened leather, stretching it as the worked and braided it along the length of the grip and covering the waxed sinew underneath. Finally, they let the leather dry, applying the balm Tharkum had taught Zorubaash to make to keep it supple and free of any cracks while it dried.

At last the maul was finished, and Gurgnir took great pleasure in wheeling it above his head. "Mighty maul!" he said, ecstatically. "Mighty maul for revenging. Mighty maul of small friends." Zorubaash and Brak encouraged Gurgnir to put on his armor, as well, so he could see how it all fit. Once he finished securing the hauberk and they were confident he knew how to fit and tighten it properly, Zorubaash pulled a large belt from his bag. It was decorated with small shields...well, small for Gurgnir, anyway. For Brak and Zorubaash, they were more like bucklers. Each had a crude skull emblazoned on them, something that Brak had toiled on nightly, in his off time. Gurgnir took the belt and clutched it to his chest. "Yes! Mighty belt for Gurgnir. It very nice. Thank you small friends!" he said. "Don' stahp tanking us yet, Gurgie," said Brak, as he pulled a large tarp of a rather bulbous looking object. Underneath was a large half-helmet, complete with a slotted visor. In all truth, it was the finer piece of armor of the whole set. Brak had toiled over it, tirelessly. He had worked, shaped, and chiseled every detail into it, with a little help from Zorubaash. They had polished it the night before, much to the dismay of Hagurth and Mazoga, as they had hoped to spend a night with their husband, while he still had some fire in him. It glinted in the sun, and Gurgnir was speechless. He knelt before the helmet, cupping it in his hands. "For Gurgnir?" he finally asked, not daring to take his eyes off it and admiring his reflection on its surface. "Well," Zorubaash stated, with his fists on his hips. "Iz too big vor us! Go ahead, my friend. Put on h'your brain bucket." Gurgnir scowled at the little chieftain, reprovingly, stating, "No is 'brain bucket'. Is Brak Helm!" Brak beamed with pride, as Gurgnir placed it upon his head and buckled the strap under his chin. "Ha!" exclaimed Zorubaash. "Iz good name for de helmet! But vot ov maul? A mighty veapon must haff a mighty name." Gurgnire picked up the maul and rolled it in his hands, looking it over. Eventually his gaze fell on the top of the maul, and he noticed that it was part of the dragon's knee. "Knee Breaker!" he exclaimed. "It 'Knee Breaker', mighty weapon of small friends." Brak and Zorubaash roared in elation, and they all celebrated the completion of Gurgnir's armaments.

In their celebration, none of the companions had noticed that some of the guards had gathered, as their interest had been growing about what Zorubaash and Brak had been making within the overly large tent. Even some of Vorn's archers had wandered over to watch the small giant prance about and sing. From behind them, Zorubaash heard the words of his Forgemaster, "It is not Forgeborn, but it is strong." He wheeled around and beheld Mazoga, with their son in a sling across her chest. He bowed his thanks at the compliment, with reverence. She walked towards Gurgnir, and a small group of Forgeborn walked with her. She asked Gurgnir if she could examine the maul, and Gurgnir looked to Brak and Zorubaash, who nodded. He held it out for her, rolling it in his open palms for her to inspect. "This is well made, my Chief, and Chief's Brother, Brak," she said. "It is not of steel, like Forgeborn, but it is a mighty weapon, forged from the bones of your enemy." Gurgnir smiled with pride, while Brak and Zorubaash bowed their thanks. "Is 'Knee Breaker', mighty weapon of small friends," beamed Gurgnir. She nodded towards him, and he went back to marveling at his new equipment. She then approached her chieftain and Brak, saying, "Your brother learns well, my Chief. He may yet become a smith of the Forgeborn." Brak and Zorubaash looked up from their bowing and then at each other, in surprise. Zorubaash smiled at his old friend, and nodded. Brak's shocked expression turned to a joyful smile, and he nodded, silently. Then the Forgemaster to Zorubaash, asking, "Will my Chief walk with his Forgemaster and their son?" Zorubaash nodded and replied, "As my Forgemaster wills." He clapped his brother on the shoulder and asked if he would see to the forge, while he left. Brak nodded, and the chieftain walked beside his wife, towards their camp.

As they walked, Mazoga spoke, "The Forgeborn see their Chief arming for war. Will my Chief take his people into battle?" He did not stop walking, as he replied, "If they will follow their Chief, then he would be proud to take them with him. We go to fight the minions of Syrdar, for the defense of Venzor and for the Forgeborn." She nodded and said, "Then the Forgeborn follow. I have forged mighty weapons for my Chief. It is good for him to wield them in battle." He nodded, with reverence, saying, "I will carry them, with honor." Zorubaash thought for a moment, and then said, "Hagurth must not follow her Chief into battle. It is no place for a mother with child." Mazoga replied, "She will not be happy. She is a young warrior, and will feel her duty is to follow her Chief into battle." He grimaced and said, "Her duty is to the Forgeborn, even those yet to be born. She gives honor to her Chief and the Forgeborn, in this." Mazoga only nodded. He thought for a moment and then sighed, saying, "I will speak with her. She may hate me for this command, but I hope she will see the wisdom in it. She must do this for her Chief, just as I must do this, for my people." He could not see her face as they continued forward, but the Forgemaster looked upon the Chief with pride, that day.

At the camp, Zorubaash bathed and donned his battle gear and the blade, fastening the cloak about his shoulders. He made his way to where the chosen warriors were training, and greeted Hagurth and Rolling Thunder, as he approached. He stood beside his wife and watched as the warriors finished scaling the border wall, picking their way along the masonry with only their fingertips and toes. This was to teach them how to find impossibly small crevices along a cliff face. The masons had not made their task easy, and there were sometimes barely enough room for a fingernail. Still, his warriors learned and found their way up the steep wall, cresting the rampart, and then making their way back down, carefully. When all the warriors had assembled, panting yet standing tall before their chieftain, he nodded and then turned to Rolling Thunder, to ask, "Vill h'you take dem on a run, my friend?" The centaur nodded and trotted off around the perimeter of the wall. The warriors did not grumble, but Zorubaash could see looks of dismay in some of their eyes. Running with Rolling Thunder usually involved a sprint pace, as the centaur usually ran at full speed, like all his people. They did not hesitate, however, and his warriors followed Rolling Thunder at a run. The centaur looked back to see if all had followed him, and he caught the slight, downward wave of Zorubaash, slowing his pace to take the warriors at a slower, longer run.

Once all the warriors were out of earshot, rounding the first corner of the perimeter, Zorubaash turned to his wife, who had been waiting for a moment alone, as she planted a passionate kiss upon her chieftain. He received it with equal passion, but eventually pulled her back, saying, "We must speak." She seemed a little hurt at his rebuff, but still, she nodded and listened, "I will be taking a warband with me to assault the giants." He could see excitement in her eyes, as he continued, "You must not accompany us." At this, he had truly wounded her, and she blurted, "But my place is with my Chief, in battle." He sighed, as he placed his hand affectionately upon her belly and said, "Not this time. This time, your duty is with your people and your unborn children." He saw the fury well up in her eyes, as he had expected. She was a warrior, above all else, and he knew she would be a fierce mother bear, when the time came. He wanted her there with him, but he could not ask a mother to put her unborn children at risk. A chieftain could not ask this of her. He could only command her to remain and hope that she saw the reason behind it. His eyes pleaded with her, just as her eyes had pleaded with him, the day he chose to remain in the Forgemaster's tent. "Don't make me choose", they said. She looked into his eyes, with fire blazing behind her own, and just as before, the look he gave her broke through the rage. She softened and bowed her head, saying, "As my Chief wills." He lifted her head, looked into her eyes, beholding a tempest of emotion, and said, "Though you are far from me, you are always in my heart. I will carry your fire into battle, for you, for the Forgeborn, and for our children." She fell into his arms, shouting into his massive chest, "Carry me wherever my Chief will, just come home to your people!" She looked up at him. There were no tears, but he heard the surge of emotion in her words, "Come home to your family, my Chief." He nodded a promise and kissed her, deeply, as they embraced one another.

In the next week, Zorubaash attended to the chosen warriors, while Hagurth sent out scouting parties to find the giant camps, their numbers, and any other relevant information. They decided that small Orc hunting parties were easier to miss than human scouts in the middle of Hill Giant territory. Gurgnir provided what information he could, but in the time he had spent in the prison and then in helping with his armaments, that information could have grown old and inaccurate. Zorubaash had Rolling Thunder accompany him in training, as the centaurs speed and sharp eyes were an asset in the Deep Forest. Zorubaash now ran specific drills with the warriors to test their skill, hone their senses, and raise their endurance to the elements. He would use a couple Ice Elemental stones that Krell and Spellbook had been able to create to provide the harsh biting cold and sometimes play adversary to the warriors, in training. Zorubaash, himself, would run the courses, showing the warriors exactly what he expected from each of them. He ran them through drills in the day, at times, but mostly at night, in order to weed out their dependence on daylight, since daylight on the white glaciers would blind anyone. He taught them to see signs that had been obscured by heavy snow and the biting wind. He showed them how to craft snow goggles, traps, and shoes for crossing the glaciers. He hoped that they didn't have to use these skills, but he didn't want a single one to be unprepared for any possibility in that unforgiving world of ice and snow. He showed them the "hand-speak" of the northern clans, so that they could move, hunt, and communicate without sound. In the frozen north, sound could be as deadly as any creature or hidden fissure. Sound could bring an avalanche or call silent predators down upon them. He also taught them to wrap their bodies in furs, in order to obscure their green flesh, as nothing green grew in the wastes. At the end of their training, there was always the wall. Once he knew they could scale the wall, well enough, he began timing them, goading them to climb faster. Sometimes, he would even light a fire beneath them, encouraging them to move faster and to push their endurance. Hunters of his former clan had survived by scaling sheer cliffs in the face of onrushing predators or hostile hunting parties. They could climb almost any surface, and he demanded this of his warriors, now.

When they weren't running drills, he would teach them in the way his people had fought, with spear and blade, incorporating jabs and thrusts to follow their sweeps and slashes. Sometimes, while he and the warriors were on a break, Hagurth or Mazoga would pull him away to discuss clan business or share information on the progress of preparations for war. Hagurth mostly wanted to reacquaint herself with her husband, but Zorubaash had noticed that a similar desire had begun to creep back into Mazoga's eyes, as well. When he could sleep, he would do so in the Forgemaster's tent, with Mazoga and Hagurth beside him, and their son between. He noticed that some nights Mazoga would creep closer, seeking his warmth. He liked this. He loved to look upon his son, sleeping peacefully, and his wives resting beside him. He knew that adventures and duties would pull him away, but he was a skilled wanderer and would always find his way home. He continued to seek the Bear, on free nights, but it did not take him back to the blasted landscape, again. It showed him things about the Forgeborn's history or revealed pieces of himself, imparting its ancient wisdom upon the young chieftain. One night, however, it showed him the hills where the giants were waiting. In a ring of stones stood a hooded figure enacting a dark ceremony. The large stones had once been carved with the scrawling work of druids, but they were now marred by Syrdar's mark and other dark symbols. Zorubaash had awoken from the vision and knew that the time to move was rapidly approaching. That night he drew his family close to him, as they slept. He would protect them as best he could. He would train his people to be ready. He would carve a bright future of his people, or die trying.


	8. War and Pieces, Pt. 1

The days passed, and the two finished the plated hauberk for Gurgnir, having him try it on for fit and feel. He had beamed, stating, "Gurgnir mighty warrior! Gurgnir Tomb Breaker, revenging warrior!" Brak and Zorubaash had joined in his celebration, being sure to take note of how it moved and flexed as he, thunderously, pranced about. They knew there would need to be some adjustments, but they had indeed made a sturdy piece of armor for their ally. Next, they set to the task of shaping the dragon bone into a mighty maul for Gurgnir. They used one of the dragon's femurs, taking off the ball that fit in to the socket of the pelvis and shaving down the rest into a smooth dowel shape, making sure not to shave off too much and weaken the bone. They then forged iron bands that would hold the wood in place for the handle, along with a ring pommel from which would hang a spiked ball and chain. It was Brak's flavor to the weapon, and Zorubaash had welcomed the idea. They also crafted a round hilt for the maul, to protect Gurgnir's hands and keep the wood from sliding up the maul, just as the pommel would keep it from sliding off. With much effort, they drilled two holes into the bone to drive rivets through and secure the handle, firmly. Then they assembled the weapon, using Brak's knowledge of making barrels for the town to press iron bands in places about the bone and lining up the holes for the rivets. Then the pommel and hilt were secured, with pitch and sinew, so that they could be removed for repairs, if needed, but would hold fast during a fight. Afterwards, they set to wrapping the handle in moistened leather, stretching it as the worked and braided it along the length of the grip and covering the waxed sinew underneath. Finally, they let the leather dry, applying the balm Tharkum had taught Zorubaash to make to keep it supple and free of any cracks, while it dried.

At last the maul was finished, and Gurgnir took great pleasure in wheeling it above his head. "Mighty maul!" he said, ecstatically. "Mighty maul for revenging. Mighty maul of small friends." Zorubaash and Brak encouraged Gurgnir to put on his armor, as well, so he could see how it all fit. Once he finished securing the hauberk and they were confident he knew how to fit and tighten it properly, Zorubaash pulled a large belt from his bag. It was decorated with small, iron disks...well, small for Gurgnir, anyway. For Brak and Zorubaash, they were more like hoplite shields. Each had a crude skull emblazoned on them, something that Brak had toiled on nightly, in his off time. Gurgnir took the belt and clutched it to his chest. "Yes! Mighty belt for Gurgnir. It very nice. Thank you small friends!" he said. "Don' stahp tanking us yet, Gurgie," said Brak, as he pulled a large tarp of a rather bulbous looking object. Underneath was a large half-helmet, complete with a slotted visor. In all truth, it was the finer piece of armor of the whole set. Brak had toiled over it, tirelessly. He had worked, shaped, and chiseled every detail into it, with a little help from Zorubaash. They had polished it the night before, much to the dismay of Hagurth and Mazoga, as they had hoped to spend a night with their husband, while he still had some fire in him. It glinted in the sun, and Gurgnir was speechless. He knelt before the helmet, cupping it in his hands. "For Gurgnir?" he finally asked, not daring to take his eyes off it and admiring his reflection on its surface. "Vell," Zorubaash stated, with his fists on his hips. "Iz too big vor us! Go ahead, my friend. Put on h'your brain bucket." Gurgnir scowled at the little chieftain, reprovingly, stating, "No is 'brain bucket'. Is Brak Helm!" Brak beamed with pride, as Gurgnir placed it upon his head and buckled the strap under his chin. "Ha!" exclaimed Zorubaash. "Iz good name for de helmet! But vot ov maul? A mighty veapon must haff a mighty name." Gurgnir picked up the maul and rolled it in his hands, looking it over. Eventually his gaze fell on the top of the maul, and he noticed that it was part of the dragon's knee. "Knee Breaker!" he exclaimed. "It 'Knee Breaker', mighty weapon of small friends." Brak and Zorubaash roared in elation, and they all celebrated the completion of Gurgnir's armaments.

In their celebration, none of the companions had noticed that some of the guards had gathered, as their interest had been growing about what Zorubaash and Brak had been making within the overly large tent. Even some of Vorn's archers had wandered over to watch the small giant prance about and sing. From behind them, Zorubaash heard the words of his Forgemaster, "It is not Forgeborn, but it is strong." He wheeled around and beheld Mazoga, with their son in a sling across her chest. He bowed his thanks at the compliment, with reverence. She walked towards Gurgnir, and a small group of Forgeborn walked with her. She asked Gurgnir if she could examine the maul, and Gurgnir looked to Brak and Zorubaash, who nodded. He held it out for her, rolling it in his open palms for her to inspect. "This is well made, my Chief, and Chief's Brother, Brak," she said. "It is not of steel, like Forgeborn, but it is a mighty weapon, forged from the bones of your enemy." Gurgnir smiled with pride, while Brak and Zorubaash bowed their thanks. "Is 'Knee Breaker', mighty weapon of small friends," beamed Gurgnir. She nodded towards him, and he went back to marveling at his new equipment. She then approached her chieftain and Brak, saying, "Your brother learns well, my Chief. He may yet become a smith of the Forgeborn." Brak and Zorubaash looked up from their bowing and then at each other, in surprise. Zorubaash smiled at his old friend, and nodded. Brak's shocked expression turned to a joyful smile, and he nodded, silently. Then the Forgemaster turned to Zorubaash, asking, "Will my Chief walk with his Forgemaster and our son?" Zorubaash nodded and replied, "As my Forgemaster wills." He clapped his brother on the shoulder and asked if he would see to the forge, while he left. Brak nodded, and the chieftain walked beside his wife, towards their camp.

As they walked, Mazoga spoke, "The Forgeborn see their Chief arming for war. Will my Chief take his people into battle?" He did not stop walking, as he replied, "If they will follow their Chief, then he would be proud to take them with him. We go to fight the minions of Syrdar, for the defense of Venzor and for the Forgeborn." She nodded and said, "Then the Forgeborn follow. I have forged mighty weapons for my Chief. It is good for him to wield them in battle." He nodded, with reverence, saying, "I will carry them, with honor." Zorubaash thought for a moment, and then said, "Hagurth must not follow her Chief into battle. It is no place for a mother with child." Mazoga replied, "She will not be happy. She is a young warrior, and will feel her duty is to follow her Chief into battle." He grimaced and said, "Her duty is to the Forgeborn, even those yet to be born. She gives honor to her Chief and the Forgeborn, in this." Mazoga only nodded. He thought for a moment and then sighed, saying, "I will speak with her. She may hate me for this command, but I hope she will see the wisdom in it. She must do this for her Chief, just as I must do this, for my people." He could not see her face as they continued forward, but the Forgemaster looked upon the Chief with great pride, that day.

At the camp, Zorubaash bathed and donned his battle gear and the blade, fastening the cloak about his shoulders. He made his way to where the chosen warriors were training, greeting Hagurth and Rolling Thunder, as he approached. He stood beside his wife and watched as the warriors finished scaling the border wall, picking their way along the masonry with only their fingertips and toes. This was to teach them how to find impossibly small crevices along a cliff face. The masons had not made their task easy, and there were sometimes barely enough room for a fingernail. Still, his warriors learned and found their way up the steep wall, cresting the rampart, and then making their way back down, carefully. When all the warriors had assembled, panting yet standing tall before their chieftain, he nodded and then turned to Rolling Thunder, to ask, "Vill h'you take dem on a run, my friend?" The centaur nodded and trotted off around the perimeter of the wall. The warriors did not grumble, but Zorubaash could see looks of dismay in some of their eyes. Running with Rolling Thunder usually involved a sprinter's pace, as the centaur usually ran at full speed, like all his people. They did not hesitate, however, and his warriors followed Rolling Thunder at a run. The centaur looked back to see if all had followed him, and he caught the slight, downward wave of Zorubaash, slowing his pace to take the warriors at a slower, longer run.

Once all the warriors were out of earshot, rounding the first corner of the perimeter, Zorubaash turned to his wife, who had been waiting for a moment alone, as she planted a passionate kiss upon her chieftain. He received it with equal passion, but eventually pulled her back, saying, "We must speak." She seemed a little hurt at his rebuff, but still, she nodded. He continued, "I will be taking a warband with me to attack the giants." He could see excitement in her eyes, as he continued, "You must not go with us." At this, she blurted, "But my place is with my Chief, in battle." He sighed, as he placed his hand affectionately upon her belly and said, "Not this time. This time, your duty is with your people and your unborn children." He saw the fury well up in her eyes, as he had expected. She was a warrior, above all else, and he knew she would be a fierce mother bear, when the time came. He wanted her there with him, but he could not ask a mother to put her unborn children at risk. A chieftain could not ask this of her. He could only command her to remain and hope that she saw the reason behind it. His eyes pleaded with her, just as her eyes had pleaded with him, the day he chose to remain in the Forgemaster's tent. "Don't make me choose", they said. She looked into his eyes, with fire blazing behind her own, and just as before, the look he gave her broke through the rage. She softened and bowed her head, saying, "As my Chief wills." He lifted her head, looked into her eyes, beholding a tempest of emotion, and said, "Though you are far from me, you are always in my heart. I will carry your fire into battle, for you, for the Forgeborn, and for our children." She drove her head into his massive chest, with a thud, shouting, "Carry me wherever my Chief will, just come home to your people!" She looked up at him. There were no tears, but he heard the surge of emotion in her words, "Come home to your family, my Chief." He stifled a chuckle. She was the more emotional of his wives. Mazoga would have told him to return with honor or die in glory. He nodded a promise, however, and kissed her, deeply, as they embraced one another.

In the next week, Zorubaash attended to the chosen warriors, while Hagurth sent out scouting parties to find the giant camps, their numbers, and any other relevant information. They decided that smaller, Orc, hunting parties were easier to miss than human scouts in the middle of Hill Giant territory. Gurgnir provided what information he could, but in the time he had spent in the prison and then in helping with his armaments, that information could have grown old and inaccurate. Zorubaash had Rolling Thunder accompany him in training, as the centaurs speed and sharp eyes were an asset in the Deep Forest. Zorubaash now ran specific drills with the warriors to test their skill, hone their senses, and raise their endurance to the elements. He would use a couple Ice Elemental stones, that Krell and Spellbook had been able to create, provide the harsh, biting cold and sometimes play adversary to the warriors, in training. Zorubaash, himself, would run the courses, showing the warriors exactly what he expected from each of them. He ran them through drills in the day, at times, but mostly at night, in order to weed out their dependence on daylight, since daylight on the white glaciers would blind anyone. He taught them to see signs that had been obscured by heavy snow and the biting wind. He showed them how to craft snow goggles, traps, and shoes for crossing the glaciers. He hoped that they didn't have to use these skills, but he didn't want a single one to be unprepared for any possibility in that unforgiving world of ice and death. He showed them the "hand-speak" of the northern clans, so that they could move, hunt, and communicate without sound. In the frozen north, sound could be as deadly as any creature or hidden fissure. Sound could bring an avalanche or call perceptive predators down upon them. He also taught them to wrap their bodies in furs, in order to obscure their green flesh, as nothing green grew in the wastes. At the end of their training, there was always the wall. Once he knew they could scale the wall, well enough, he began timing them, goading them to climb faster. Sometimes, he would even light fires beneath them, encouraging their speed and pushing their endurance. Hunters of his former clan had survived by scaling sheer cliffs in the face of onrushing predators or hostile hunting parties. They could climb almost any surface, and he demanded this of his warriors, now.

When they weren't running drills, he would teach them in the way his people had fought, with spear and blade, incorporating jabs and thrusts to follow their sweeps and slashes. Sometimes, while he and the warriors were on a break, Hagurth or Mazoga would pull him away to discuss clan business or share information on the progress of preparations for war. Hagurth mostly wanted to reacquaint herself with her husband, but Zorubaash had noticed that a similar desire had begun to creep back into Mazoga's eyes, as well. When he could sleep, he would do so in the Forgemaster's tent, with Mazoga and Hagurth beside him, and their son between. He noticed that some nights Mazoga would creep closer, seeking his warmth. He liked this. He loved to look upon his son, sleeping peacefully, and his wives resting beside him. He knew that adventures and duties would pull him away, but he was a skilled wanderer and would always find his way home. He continued to seek the Bear, on free nights, but it did not take him back to the blasted landscape, again. It showed him things about the Forgeborn's history or revealed pieces of himself, imparting its ancient wisdom upon the young chieftain. One night, however, it showed him the hills where the giants were waiting. In a ring of stones stood a hooded figure enacting a dark ceremony. The large stones had once been carved with the scrawling work of druids, but they were now marred by Syrdar's mark and other dark symbols. Zorubaash had awoken from the vision and knew that the time to move was rapidly approaching. That night he drew his family close to him, as they slept. He would protect them as best he could. He would train his people to be ready. He would carve a bright future of his people, or die trying.

...

At last, it was time to move on the giants. In the three weeks since the meeting with Lady Effrix, they had made enough progress with fortifications and setting up supplies. Should the giants send their own forces to Venzor, the town and the Forgeborn would be ready. Zorubaash had sent out several small hunting parties with different routes and stopping points, to disguise their movement and hide their numbers. The hunters were to wait in the trees and underbrush along the path, to guard against ambush and to remain hidden, if no one attacked the procession of troops and archers. Once they reached the Giant encampments, his people were to wait for the first wave of the attack and then swoop in to pick off ranged enemies and sow chaos behind enemy lines. Once the main force reached them in combat, they were to turn and reinforce the guards and archers, adding their might to the push. If they found prisoners from the villages and towns, they would spirit them away, as soon as fighting began and while the giants were distracted. If they saw any sorcerers, they were to eliminate them, or point them out to their chieftain and the archers, for destruction. Both he and his Forgemaster agreed that this would put the Forgeborn warrior's skills as hunters and raiders to best use. He longed to lead them into battle as a warband, but he knew that this was not the time. They must eliminate the outlying giant camps quickly, with no survivors to alert the others, before they descended upon the main camp. Always, one band of hunters and rangers would be scouting ahead, marking targets at the next camp and relaying the information to himself and Count Vorn back at the meeting tent.

For a while, things went relatively smoothly, as the remote encampments were just disorganized mobs of hill giants. Only a handful of prisoners were discovered, however, telling stories of how most of them were carted off to a larger camp. The ones the Venzor troops recovered seemed only intended for sport or food. As the small army drew closer to the main camp, however, things began to change. The giants were more well armed and armored. More spellcasters were discovered amongst their ranks, and even other creatures were mixed into their number. On one raid, Zorubaash noticed a couple trolls along with a hag. He had called for a volley on the trolls, while he carved open their bellies with his flaming sword, the magic in the flames leaving them unable to heal and eventually consuming them with fire. Count Vorn had dealt swiftly with the hag. His arrows full of enchantment and his aim being the sharpest Zorubaash had ever seen. He had wondered how Kleatus would stack up against the Count in a contest. Eventually, they drew near to the main camp of giants, and the Forgeborn scouts relayed disturbing news to their chieftain. Prisoners were being taken to a circle of stones at the rear of the camp. The Forgeborn could not see clearly, as the area was obscured with unnaturally dark mist, but they had heard unearthly screams coming from within. Zorubaash had growled at this news, knowing full well what was likely happening to them. He advised Count Vorn to stay on the lookout for demons and twisted monsters, as Syrdar or his followers were likely conjuring dark things from some unearthly pit. The scouts also reported that more trolls and hags had been seen in the camp, with hooded figures moving about, unhindered by the armored giants.

It was then that Zorubaash decided to split off from the main force and join his warriors in conducting a raid on the dark circle and any minions of Syrdar who would stand between them. When Count Vorn had asked him about his decision, Zorubaash had explained, "It vould mean trouble for us all, if dey finish dehr vurk. Syrdar's sorcery iz fueld by blood and souls. If vee can keep de prisoners alive and out of dehr hands, den vee can veaken dem." Count Vorn still asked why the chieftain needed to join his warriors on the raid. Zorubaash had come to enjoy the Count's straightforward manners. He didn't mince words, and he was always honest with the chieftain, even if his family had hunted orcs for generations. In truth, Zorubaash had never begrudged him this, understanding that his kind often did terrible things to others, especially when they were caught up in the frenzy of the flood. He hoped that after this campaign, they could hunt together, sometime, and that Zorubaash could show Count Vorn around his people's camp. He was proud of them and all they had accomplished. He desired to share at least a piece of it with this mighty and honest hunter. "Two reasons, Count Vorn," he started, but the Count interrupted him, saying, "Tigre, Chief Zorubaash. I don't like titles." Zorubaash smiled and retorted with, "Iz Gore, Tigre. I don't carry titles among friends." Tigre nodded and waved for him to continue. "First, we need to break de ritual. My varriors and I are best suited for dis. Vee are unarmored and do not reqvire horses." Tigre nodded, while Zorubaash continued, "Second, I carry items and veapons dat vould shatter dehr defenses and slay de sorcerers." Tigre then added, "And you've had experience fighting the minions of Syrdar." Zorubaash nodded and replied, "Aye! As have my people." Tigre raised an eyebrow, and Zorubaash shared the tale of the renegade challenger to his claim as chieftain and how he had transformed into some giant flesh beast. "Dis is vot vee face, in dat camp. Darkness dat vould varp flesh and tvist minds." Tigre admitted that he had felled many great beasts and more than a few monsters but that such things were indeed dark and dangerous. Zorubaash nodded, saying, "Aye! Syrdar and his magic iz de corrution ov flesh. It offers power, but demands a terrible price. In de end, it vill consume all...unless vee stand and stop it." They locked arms, wishing the other glory and honor in the coming battle, then Zorubaash turned to meet with his warriors and make plans for the early morning.

Before the dawn, Zorubaash had crept up on the camp, with his warriors. They found paths along the perimeter that were away from any patrols and moved only when the guards' attentions were elsewhere. The unearthly sounds coming from the circle of stones also helped cover any sounds they might have made, no matter how stealthy they were. Zorubaash knew, however, that sight, sound, and even smell were not the only things that would give away their approach, and he had consulted with Spellbook, Wrona, and Krell to acquire a few items that might give him and his hunters an edge in slaying the minions of Syrdar. He paid a fair sum for the items and enchantments, but he knew it was worth the gold to put an end to dark sorcerers and their minions. As he led the Forgeborn, he held a rod in his hand which would help detect any warding runes or sigils that may have been placed around to warn of intruders or kill any who dared to approach. They found several along their path, and were able to avoid them. Zorubaash wondered if they would activate for any fool who stepped on them or crossed their barrier, so he chose to keep them between his warriors and possible enemy reinforcements. Once they were near the barrier, he motioned for his warriors to make ready and for lookouts to stay alert. They would attack when Tigre launched his assault on the front of the camp. Hiding behind the stones but not daring to touch them, the warriors made ready and waited. Zorubaash readied a trinket that would hopefully dispel the misty barrier within the stone circle and give them a clear shot at the sorcerers. He had given his warriors several enchanted javelins to pierce magic defenses and had instructed them to fire upon the mages, as soon as they were in sight. He would not give them a chance to cast their spells, if he could help it. Other than that, he carried a couple potions, one to make him larger, a few to make him breathe different elements, and one to ward off spells and dark magic. The last one had been a gift from Sanzor, and Zorubaash had thanked him, with all sincerity. He had also placed a blessing of Moradin upon his hammer, before Zorubaash had left on his mission with the hunters. Zorubaash didn't know what it would do, but he was sure that any demon would not like it. He allowed himself a wolfish grin, as the thought crossed his mind. Lastly, he carried a special item that Spellbook had crafted from one of Zanarick's claws. He didn't know what it would do, but both Spellbook and Krell had warned him not to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. Zorubaash tucked that one away in his belt, hoping not to need it. He checked his health potions, his healer's kit, and the rest of his gear, just as his warriors were checking their gear and readying the javelins. Then they waited.

Count Tigre Vorn mustered the troops in the early morning, while his archers checked their bows and brushed their fetching. They had smothered their fires early, so that no smoke would be visible from the treeline. They approached the edge of the trees they had been using for cover during the night, and watched the camp. All the guards wore cloaks, like the archers, to hide their armor and keep any glints of metal from alerting the enemy. Both Sanzor and Narvi had prayed to Moradin for clarity and strength before the company left camp, but still the tension was palpable, as they stood in the shadows of the forest. The archers kept their horses quiet and Sanzor had added his magic to aid in keeping them calm, as the smells of death and monsters were pervasive, wafting down the low hills and into the forest. Tigre just watched the guards, waiting for the early morning drowsiness to take its toll well before the changing of shifts. He began to see one of the giant guards' heads begin to bob, and then another yawned. He readied his bow, selecting an arrow that would cause as much noise and confusion as possible. He crept into a deep shadow, and the other archers saw his movements, mimicking their Count and readying to fire. Each archer picked targets, as Tigre zeroed in on the lead guard. There was a moment of perfect silence, between yawns, sighs, and the occasional flatulence of the giants. In that moment, he loosed his arrow, and all the archers did the same. In an instant, death rained down upon the front of the camp, as one arrow struck a guard's face, exploding with the sound of loud thunder that echoed across the mountains behind. The explosion caved the guard's face in, and he toppled backwards, as others struck their targets in similar flashes and explosions. At that, the archers leapt on their horses, and the troops charged, throwing off their cloaks and roaring at the top of their lungs. The guards fell, and there were cries of alarm within the camp. Then out of the trees erupted Gurgnir, brandishing Knee Breaker over his head and bellowing, "FOR REVENGING!"

Zorubaash heard the explosions and the cries of war. He looked to his warriors and counted down, visibly, on his fingers, waiting until all attention had turned to the front of the camp. Then he broke the dispelling trinket against the barrier, and the mist evaporated in an instant. As the warriors rounded the stones, they were greated by horrors beyond their ken. Several mages were coated in gore and strips of flesh, clutching wicked daggers in their hands. Others had been flayed alive and looked as if they wore their old skins like cloaks. Everywhere within the circle was blood and viscera. It reminded Zorubaash of the state of the hag they had found in the hut, with her insides decorating the walls, as if they were the walls, themselves. In the center of the circle was what Zorubaash knew to be the focus of their ritual, a dark portal opening into some damned abyss. Several sorcerers clutched fresh sacrifices, while they wriggled and screamed for salvation. Inured to the horrorscape before him, Zorubaash hefted his lightning empowered javelin, took aim at the lead sorcerer, and launched it through the bodies of several others, shouting the empowering word he had given it, "Nellothein". He then drew the flaming blade, igniting it with his rage and bellowing to his warriors, "FOR THE FORGE!" The action and words of their chieftain snapped the other Forgeborn out of their shock, and they joined in his roar, hurling their javelins at the sorcerers. Several javelins struck the sorcerers with prisoners, who then ran for the perimeter, in panic. Several other sorcerers made to chase them, but the Forgeborn pounced upon them, with brutal savagery, hacking them to pieces. Zorubaash swigged the potion of protection as he ran towards the lead sorcerer. He dropped the bottle and took a firm grip on the blade, as he swung in a cleaving arc across any acolytes foolish enough to impede his charge, while their spells bounced off his empowered flesh or were absorbed by the potion's effects. The mighty blade made quick work of his foes, as he carved a bloody path towards the head sorcerer. The javelin he had thrown had scorched at least two other targets on its path towards the dark sorcerer, striking him in the shoulder and erupting in an explosion of thunder. He had stumbled back, the javelin buried in his ruined shoulder, and Zorubaash made to topple him. Before the ferocious chieftain could reach the staggering sorcerer, however, he plunged a wicked blade into his heart and uttered some dark words before he fell. Then there was the sound of ripping and tortured screams, as the portal began to pulse. The remaining sorcerers added their screams to the tempest, as their blood was ripped from their bodies and was sucked into the portal. Zorubaash spun around and barked to his warriors, "Stand ready! Give room for whatever comes through, then we attack as one!" He stepped off the ritual circle, and the warriors followed his lead, with great superstition.

Clawed hands emerged from the portal and gripped its edges, as whatever they were attached to struggled to tear open a breach in the fabric of the world. Then horns began to pierce the swirling void, attached to the grim visage of an archfiend. As its head stretched through the portal, it screamed an unearthly cry, and several of his warriors fell back. As he looked to them and shouted words of bravery, he noticed that the blood upon the floor was still being drawn to the portal and the stone pulsed with dark energy. He looked back at the demon and saw that it still struggled to free itself. He bellowed to his warriors, "Topple the stones! Uproot them and cast them down the hill!" They nodded to their chieftain and began to throw their strength against the embedded beacons of darkness. As they worked against the stones, Zorubaash pulled two potions from his bandoleer. He drank the first and began to grow several times larger, then he drank the other, and it felt like glacier water was filling his lungs to bursting. Just as he finished growing, he breathed out across the ritual circle, and a blizzard flowed from his lungs, freezing the remaining blood and halting its gradual progress towards the portal. The fiend noticed the actions of the enlarged chieftain and his people, and a clawed hand shot from the portal to grab him. Zorubaash didn't stop his breath until it was spent, sweeping it across the fiend's arm, creating a sheet of frigid ice. Then he summoned all his strength and wrenched his right hand free, drawing the trusty warhammer at his side. He raised it above his head, and brought it down upon the creatures arm, where the ice had formed, shouting, "For the Forge!" As the hammer struck the fiend's frozen flesh, the blessing upon it sparked and then exploded, shattering bones and incinerating flesh. The fiend shrieked and recoiled, drawing the stump of its arm back into the portal. The lifeless hand fell at Zorubaash's feet, and he drew back, again, to strike the creature's head. It shot a menacing gaze at him, speaking dark words in an unearthly tongue. Terror gripped the chieftain's heart, and his head began to swim with dark shadows and screams of torment. It reminded him of his vision quest with the Bear, of the rivers of blood, the screams of the damned, and the dark forms of his cursed people. Then he heard it, the sound of the hammer and the forge. It pierced the darkness with fire, and he roared against the magic that sought to strip him of his senses. The burning blade in his hand erupted into an inferno, pulsing with the song of the Forge. He raised it above his head, bellowing his rage against the evil that sought to plunge the world into darkness. The fiend looked up, as the blade descended, and began to scream in defiance. Its screams were cut short, however, as the great blade split the grim face in twain, between its crown of horns. The blade carried through and shattered the frozen blood, sundering the ritual beneath. The head slumped and began to recede back into the portal, as it closed. Zorubaash was not finished with the creature, however. He reached out a massive hand and gripped one of the largest horns, planting his feet and pulling against the sucking abyss.

As the magic waned and the last of the stones were toppled, the portal snapped shut, clipping off the fiend's head, at the neck. The enlarged chieftain hefted the severed, ruined head above him and roared in victory. The Forgeborn looked up and saw the victory of their chieftain. They joined in his victory, adding their roars with his, and the sound carried beyond the circle and over the camp, to the continuing battle. Heads turned during the battle and saw an enormous, grey, half-orc barbarian, standing at the rear of the camp, clutching a massive flaming blade in one hand and raising the severed head of a gigantic demon in the other, roaring to the sky. Then the hulking behemoth turned to towards the battle, pointed his raging brand at the enemy, and bellowed to the orcs at his feet, "FOR THE FORGE!" A sea of green orcs crested the hill and descended upon the flailing giants and panicked creatures, as the mighty behemoth plodded after them, dropping the severed head and raising its sword over one shoulder, for a cleaving strike. Zorubaash planted his lead foot and brought the sword across his chest, in a horizontal arc, taking several giants' heads off at the shoulders. He let the blade carry through, releasing his right hand to let it dig into the dirt behind him. With his momentum, he hurled a heavy haymaker into the chest of another giant with bone spikes protruding from its back. The creature's chest cavity caved in, and the brute spewed a font of blood upon the chieftain's feet, as the punch sent him sailing over the troops from Venzor to crash into the forest beyond. The troops in the rear watched the arcing corpse and cheered as it crashed into the forest, turning back to the fight, with renewed vigor. Tigre was a lethal flurry of arrows, as each shot was made with rapid precision, piercing eye sockets and severing arteries. Narvi laid about her, crushing bones and smiting her unholy foes. Zorubaash saw a fire within her beyond the holy fury of her order, and he wondered if she was revenging herself against the dark forces that assailed Venzor, remembering the horrible things she had seen within the snake temple, with the other Rats. Sanzor had cast a beacon of Moradin's blessing about him, sheltering some of the embattled troops and giving cover to the archers, while he struck out with flaming hammers to smite any approaching foes. He worked furiously, but his features were calm, assured. He was indeed a beacon of hope and a source of strength for the troops. All about him were the sounds of battle, troops of Venzor fell and were revived to fight again, usually slaughtering the creature that had toppled them. Archers chose their marks and let fly their arrows, piercing their foes. Above it all, he heard the roars of his people, the Forgeborn, and of Gurgnir. It filled him with pride and strength, beyond his tired muscles and aching wounds, driving him to lay into his enemies and split their quivering flesh with the flaming blade of his people. He reveled in the combat and in the fire of his people. He was a warchief. He was Zorubaash Forgeborn!

As the last of the enemy fell to their blades and arrows, the war party raised their voices in victory. The giant scourge had been crushed, and the dark ritual had been stopped. As the exhaustion from combat began to set end, the troops slumped against one another, and began to laugh, deliriously. The potion Zorubaash had consumed, wore off, and he returned to his normal hulking size. He wandered about, checking on his people and offering aid to the troops where he could. The most seriously wounded were taken to Sanzor and Narvi, who began to treat them with potions, healer's kits, and the blessings of their forge god. He found the Forgeborn already setting to the task of claiming their trophies, and he noticed that some of them had begun to gather the heads of the giants he had felled. He looked over his shoulder at the massive demon head upon the hill, and he wondered how they would get it back to the camp. He eventually made his way to Gurgnir, and saw that he had made a good showing of his strength. Though there were many dents in his armor and blood flowed from a few deep cuts, he was largely whole and healthy. He was examining the maul for any chips or cracks, as Zorubaash approached, saying, "Hail, mighty Gurgnir Tomb Breaker! H'you took many heads dis day." Gurgnir smiled and winced, as a stream of blood ran down the side of his head. Zorubaash quickly pulled a large, red potion from his bandoleer and handed it to his ally, encouraging him to drink it all. As Gurgnir drank the healing elixir, his wounds began to mend, and the blood stopped flowing. He finished the potion and smashed the bottle upon the ground, with renewed vitality. Zorubaash only laughed, boisterously, still drunk with victory. Gurgnir removed his helmet and examined the dents, saying, "Iz good Brak Helm. Small friends fix?" Zorubaash patted his leg and assured him that they would. Gurgnir thanked him and went back to checking the maul, wiping off the blood with the body of a fallen giant. As Zorubaash went back to his people, he hoped that Gurgnir would some day find his place among a new people.

Eventually, the troops were well enough to leave, and they gathered up what supplies they could, leaving the rest for a return trip. Zorubaash walked with his people, alongside the column of troops. They had piled their trophies into a large wagon they had recovered from the camp, and were now pulling it along with them. Another cart had been found, and it carried the split head of the demon that their chieftain had slain. As they marched, Tigre rode up beside the victorious chieftain, saying, "Well, that's something I've never seen before." He thrust his thumb towards the demon head, and Zorubaash laughed, "Indeed! Iz a big von." Tigre then leaned over his saddle, and asked, "You fight things like that often?" Zorubaash shook his head, saying, "No. Dat iz first, but I fear iz not last. Vee ver lucky ritual vas incomplete." He nodded towards the survivors, as he continued, "Dey vill never be de same, again. Such horror marks h'you as much as any brand or scar." Tigre pondered his words and then asked, "Has it marked you?" Zorubaash glanced down at his leg and then replied, "It did, vonce. But I haff broken it, and my scar iz another mark ov victory." Tigre threw his head back in laughter. Some looked in their direction, but eventually he calmed himself and said, "Well spoken, Gore! Our scars are marks of victory, if we make them so." Zorubaash smiled at his words, and the conversed while they marched.

It was a long days march back to Venzor, but as they saw the defenses of the town and the waives of the sentries, their spirits lifted and life sprang into their limbs. The men of Venzor stood more upright and began to march as returning champions, instead of the plodding of recovering troops. The village welcomed their returning champions, with open arms. Sweethearts rushed to their men, families embraced their fathers, and friends slapped each other on the back. The Forgeborn had parked the wagons just inside the perimeter and took the time to stretch and readjust their equipment. Zorubaash checked on his people, again, lavishing them with praise at their mighty deeds. They returned in kind, and they were a rowdy crowd of rejoicing orcs. Out of the corner of his eye, Zorubaash noticed some of the troops approaching the Forgeborn, cautiously, with their families and loved ones. He turned and greeted them, welcoming them to come and meet his warriors. Some of the troops already knew some of the Forgeborn, as they had gone on jobs together, and they picked up as old friends. Some of them introduced themselves and thanked the warriors for their help. Zorubaash then felt a slight tugging at his cloak, turned and looked down to see a little girl standing there, holding her father's hand. She looked up at the chieftain and said, "Um...mister?" "That's Goremash,sweetie," whispered her father. She nodded to him, and then turned back to the chieftain, "Mister Goremash?" He knelt down in front of her, still being several heads taller, and asked, "Vot iz it, little von?" She blushed and stammered, "Um...thank you for helping my daddy." He smiled broadly at her, saying, "It vas my honor, little von. H'your fadder vas very brave. He fought huge monsters and protected h'you all." His exaggerations filled the little girl with excitement, and she turned to her father, asking, "Really, daddy?! You fought monsters." Zorubaash laughed, while the father smiled down at her. "Ho yes, little von. Mighty giants, hideous hags, and terrible trolls, he fought dem all, right beside me and my people." The chieftain swept a large hand towards the Forgeborn, and her eyes followed. "H'your fadder is very strong, and he has strong daughter." The little girl looked back to him and smiled broadly. "I'm gonna be a soldier, like my daddy." Zorubaash laughed again, with great amusement at the girl's sincerity. "I look forward to seeing dat," he said with a heartfelt smile. He noticed the girl look back at the Forgeborn, and he asked, "Vould h'you like to meet my varriors?" She looked at him and then to her father, who nodded with a smile. She looked back at him and nodded vigorously. The chieftain stood, laughing, and introduced the little girl and her father to his people. They greeted them warmly, as more troops began to mingle and families came to say thanks.

Lady Effrix appeared and congratulated the troops and warriors, inviting them to a feast in their honor. Zorubaash considered her offer but noticed that his people were casting brief glances toward camp. He graciously thanked her for her hospitality but declined, stating that they needed to return home to their own families. She nodded in understanding and offered her thanks, again. The Forgeborn returned to the carts, and Zorubaash led them back to camp, while the people of Venzor waived and cheered. The march back to the Forgeborn camp was mostly silent, save for the rumbling of the wagons and the occasional rock kicked by a shuffling foot. His people were stoic in their marches, fierce in battle, and rowdy in their celebration. They were truly a people forged for their chieftain, and he cherished them. Along the way, Zorubaash sent a message ahead to Allen, telling them of their victory and coming return. He then held the ring to his face, saying, "Kleatus? We are victorious! Venzor and the Forgeborn crushed the giants and slew the sorcerers. I have claimed the head of a demon, and our home is safe, for another day. Be well my friend. I will see you again, soon."

As the victorious warband approached the abbey walls of Countess Abyth, the sentries shouted and drew up the portcullis. The warriors marched under the gate, pulling the carts, and were greeted by a horde of faces, cheering and shouting. The Rats in residence approached their fellow member, clapping him on the shoulder and demanding stories. Spellbook had taken on his child-like disguise, as usual, and was bouncing next to an elated Abyth and a stoic Nerwyne. Brak greeted his brother, with a mighty bear hug and a clap on the shoulder. Sara bowed her thanks, and Zorubaash returned a warm smile. Within the crowd, he could see other Foreborn, and he began to look for his wives, as the crowd continued to praise the returning warriors and marvel at their trophies. It was well into the night, and he knew the forge would be silent now, so he had hoped that his wives would have joined crowd to welcome them, but he also knew that their duties would sometimes keep them late into the night, much like his own. His fears were misplaced, however, as he saw their faces in the crowd and heard the sounds of his son. Zorubaash met Hagurth and Mazoga in the midst of the crowd, and he beamed at them. The Forgemaster held their son and bowed to her chieftain. Hagurth also bowed and then sprang into his arms. He raised her above his head, roaring with pride and joy. As he set her back down, she kissed him, and then said, "My Chief has returned to his people." He looked at her and Mazoga, warmly, replying, "Aye! The Chief has returned to his family." He held Hagurth close to his side with one arm and swung the other one wide, pointing to the carts. "The Chief and his warriors return, with glory and honor, for the Forgeborn and the people of Venzor!" At this, the crowd erupted with more cheers. Allen trotted up to the chieftain, clearly beside himself, sputtering, "Um, Gore? Wha...what is that?!" He was pointing to the split demon's head in the last cart, and Zorubaash replied, "Dat, friend Allen, iz de head ov a demon. Vee faced de sorcerers amidst a dark ritual to summon de creature. Vee slew dem, and vhile my mighty warriors toppled de stones ov power, I grappled vit it. Vee broke de ritual, and split de skull of de fiend, claiming its head as our trophy!" The warband roared with pride and victory, and the other Forgeborn joined in, saying, "Hail, Chief Zorubaash, Head Taker and Demon Slayer!" Zorubaash raised his fists and roared in reply, "Hail my warriors, my mighty people! HAIL THE FORGEBORN!"

...

The victory feast was rowdy and full of mirth. Stories were told and tankards raised in toast to the returning defenders. The trophies were on full display in their carts, and the people would marvel at the might and courage of the chieftain and his warriors. Again, the Forgeborn played their music, and Cami, the Drow bard and keeper of the Warden Stone, added her skill with the lute to their singing. She had learned more of their songs, and was putting all her effort into matching their rhythm and tone. Occasionally, she would play one of her own songs or some she had learned on her journeys. The guards and other servants would all join in on the songs from the Wanton Harper, Venzor's tavern. The feast had been set between the Forgeborn camp and the abbey, in a place that all the people could gather and join in. It's not that his people would seek to exclude others from their camp, but it simply couldn't hold this number. Everyone was there, the Rats in residence, the Countess and her family, the guards, the servants, and his mighty people. They sang, danced, laughed, roared, and feasted under the clear night sky, while a bonfire raged in the center of the gathering, flanked by large tables full to bursting with people, celebrating.

Mazoga sat beside her chieftain, cradling their son and watching the festivities, with what Zorubaash realized was pride and contentment. Hagurth leaned against him, and she placed his hand upon her belly, where he felt two swift kicks. "The children missed their father, my Chief," she said, stroking the sides of her growing stomach. He smiled down at her and replied, "And I missed my family, wife." She leaned against his arm, with satisfaction, and asked with a sigh, "Will my Chief return to the other Rats, when this is done?" He thought for a moment and then replied, "I...I do not know. I miss my brother and my fellow Rats, but I feel there is still much to do, here." Mazoga had been listening, and she touched his arm. He turned to look over at her, and she offered him their son, saying, "My Chief should hold his son. He should feel the strength and victory in my Chief's arms." Zorubaash smiled and scooped the baby into one arm, cradling his head in the his mighty hand. The baby squirmed, a little, and opened his eyes to look upon his father. "This is good," Zorubaash thought to himself. "A boy should know his father and mother. He should know the ways of his people and feel the strength of their number." As they sat together, enjoying the company and the celebration, he thought, "There is still much to do."


	9. War and Pieces, Pt. 2

It had been months since the Band had left for the open sea, in search of Kleatus' homeland. Months since Zorubaash had been flung back into Zanarick's tomb, and nearly another month since the campaign to defend Venzor against the giants and the machinations of Syrdar. The Forgeborn had moved within the abbey's walls and work had begun on the new forge for the growing tribe. He wanted to make a place for his people, but he knew they would be called to wander. He hoped they would see this as a place to return, along their routes. Word had reached him that Kleatus and the Band had made landfall on the outer islands of his homeland, and he wished them well. He could not join them, however. He had other matters that demanded the attention of a chieftain and a kinsman.

It was an early morning, while Zorubaash and his family lay upon their bed, in Mazoga's tent. A Forgeborn warrior and one of Allen's men had roused them from their slumber, though most were already stirring, as the baby demanded food and their day was about to start. The guard carried word that the scouting party Zorubaash had dubbed the Ice Wolves and sent to find his fleeing kinsmen were returning, at a labored pace. Grey-skinned orcs had been spotted amongst their party, and seemed to be badly injured. Hearing this, Zorubaash leapt from the bed, and readied his gear, barking orders to gather a party and meet them on the road to provide any aide. "I go to meet my warriors and assist those in need. Forgemaster, will you make preparations here?" he asked, hurriedly. Mazoga cradled their son and nodded, dutifully, saying, "As my Chief wills." He nodded in reply and ran from the tent, gathering with the other warriors and leading them at a full run to the other side of Venzor.

It felt good to run with his people, to feel blood pumping, rapidly, in his chest and hear the rhythm of their synchronized pace. As they neared the edge of Venzor, Zorubaash could see the returning party. They were walking at a good clip, but he noticed they made sure to keep a defensive position around whomever was with them. He could not see the other orcs, yet, as they were hemmed in by the formation. He smiled and bellowed a greeting, as he pressed forward with his warriors to meet them. The Ice Wolf party returned his greeting and slowed their pace, as they approached. "Hail, my Ice Wolves! Have the Forge and the Bear brought you fortune?" The leader of the party saluted his chieftain and replied, "Hail Chief Zorubaash! The Forge and..."

From within the ranks, Zorubaash heard a familiar voice cry out, "Where is the forsaken?! Where is the dog, Zorubaash?!" He knew her voice, and though the words cut him, he did not shrink from the challenge, saying, "Zorubaash Forgeborn stands here! Who seeks to challenge me?" The other Forgeborn looked to one another and tensed for combat, as a brawny, grey-skinned half-orc shouldered her way through the formation and squared off with their chieftain. "I seek the one who crawled from the mountains and abandoned his people. I seek Zorubaash!" she said, defiantly. He squared his shoulders, standing erect and matching her defiance. He knew this game. His former people always boasted and challenged, as a greeting. Sometimes it was only a greeting. Sometimes it ended in another's death. He saw rage in her eyes but also deep fatigue and despair. He would match her, but not in the way of his old people. He would show her the strength of his people, of the Forgeborn. "I am Zorubaash, chieftain of the Forgeborn, and former sword brother to Raashazur and Braakam of the Bloodfist. My tithe was paid to the clan, and I left to seek the Bear. Why do you challenge me, Raashazur Bloodfist? Has not the shaman told my story to the clan?" She almost seemed to falter at hearing her name and the recognition it implied, but the mention of the shamans seemed to stoke a fire within her. "The shamans are dead! Burned alive by the War Chief, Gruuk the Bloody, as traitors and heretics for speaking against his will and the words of his sorcerer. You are forsaken and weak! You fled the clan and left us to be corrupted! Who are you to call us kin?!"

This news called back his visions from the Bear and the accusation stoked his own fire into an inferno. He erupted, "I am Zorubaash, first of my name and strength of my people! I am Forgeborn, and we are unbroken! I sought strength beyond the madness of our fallen chieftain, and they stand before you, now! See the might of my people!" He spread his arms wide to indicate the Forgeborn warriors that had gathered around their chieftain. This did not give her pause, however. She was fuming and almost seemed on the verge of tears, if Bloodfist warriors could cry. "And what good is this strength, chieftain?! Your first people are broken and shamed, corrupted by sorcerer tricks and demons. The shamans are dead and so is our brother, Braakam!" The words struck him in his chest and almost knocked the wind from his lungs. He looked to the leader of the Ice Wolves for answers, but the warrior only nodded, solemnly. Zorubaash set his jaw and scowled, returning his gaze to Raashazur. "Did he die, fighting?" was all he asked. This seemed to shock her back to her senses, and she steadied her voice, as she replied, "He died in glory, taking many with him to meet the mother." Zorubaash nodded in understanding, saying, "Then I will sing his story before the Bear and tell his tale to our people." She struck a haughty pose, but the fire had left her. "And who will listen? We are all that is left," she said, as she motioned to the other Bloodfist behind her.

Zorubaash looked and saw a broken half-orc, bloodied and mutilated. He could barely stand upright, with the help of a Forgeborn warrior under his arm. Even though his face was swollen and marred, Zorubaash knew him. "Ronaag!" he exclaimed and motioned for other warriors to aid him. Though they had once been rivals, he was still kindred, and Zorubaash would give him aide. "Who did this?!" he asked. Raashazur smirked and replied, "Our own, corrupted people...and the sorcerer's minions. They cut out his tongue for speaking against the chieftain and then the sorcerer played with him." Zorubaash looked closely and could see marks upon him. "Syrdar!" he growled. Raashazur raised an eyebrow and said, "Aye! Syrdar, the dark sorcerer. How do you know this name?" A disgusted scowl formed on his face, as he replied, "I was once his prisoner, as well. I broke free, with my companions, and have been dogged by the vile worm, ever since." Now it was her turn to scowl, as she asked, "And you did not slay him?! You are the reason he still walks the land?!" The venom in her accusation was palpable, and he shot a burning glare at her, saying, "I have sought his life for years, as his minions have craved my blood." He indicated the raking scar across his face. "If he would face me, I would end him, but he only sends his minions. I return them to the hells they crawled from, but he eludes me." She laughed, haughtily, and said, "Some War Chief! Could not kill a sorcerer and could not save your own people." At this, the Forgeborn palmed their weapons and glared at her. He made to speak, but the Ice Wolf leader spoke first, "He did save his people. He is Zorubaash, the Shame Breaker, Reclaimer of Lurog's Pride and the returning chieftain of the Forgeborn. Choose your next words carefully, warrior."

She looked around at the hardened faces of the Forgeborn and then back at Zorubaash, saying, "Do they fight all your battles, Zorubaash?" Zorubaash did not move to calm them. He leveled his gaze at her and replied, "Would you not defend your own chieftain? Would you not fight for his glory and the glory of the clan? They are my people, and I am their chieftain. We stand and fight, as one." At these words, she snapped, "WE ARE YOUR PEOPLE, AND YOU LEFT US!" She lunged at him, faster than the warriors could react, but he had anticipated the assault. He knew her to be impetuous and hot-headed, much like himself, and he expected things to go this way. He drew his hammer and drove the top of the head into her stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs, while his free arm came under hers and drove her into the dirt. All weapons were drawn and ready by the time the fight was over. He pinned her to the ground, with his knee on her hips and his left hand on her shoulder, while she flailed against his grip. He did not raise his hammer to finish her, however. He looked her square in the eyes and spoke, steadily, "I left you, but your memories never left me. I begged the Bear to take me home, but he led me to the Forgeborn. I broke their shame and called them home. They became my people, but I never forgot you. I cannot save those who have passed, but I will not let you remain broken and become forgotten. My people are strong...all of them."

Then he remembered. He saw in her eyes the same question as she had asked back then. "Will you lead us?" they asked. For a moment, he was swept away in the memories. He recalled his early years, within the Bloodfist clan. He remembered the beatings and the training. He remembered those who could not withstand the harsh training. He remembered those who had been thrown to the beasts and the berserks. He remembered their cries. He recalled one who did not cry. He was too young to be given a name, yet, but Zorubaash remembered him. As he was thrown to the berserk pit, he did not look fearful. Zorubaash recalled that he looked defiant. He stood amidst the berserks, who were frothing for his blood around the perimeter, and looked at Zorubaash, he who was strongest amongst the brood. He looked and spoke, before the berserks tore him to pieces: "Remember us." It was then that Zorubaash had made the promise. He would never forget the fallen, those he called kindred.

After that, others were cast down, ones without names and ones who had them. He remembered them. He stood and watched and remembered. He trained twice as hard as his brood. He trained others who sought his strength. He taught them to fight with their minds, as much as their hands, feet, and tusks. In their cave, he bound logs to strike and grapple. He made bags of rocks to throw and slam, until the rocks became sand. He honed wooden weapons to wield against one another. Always, they would enter the training arena with fresh bruises and sore muscles, but they would emerge victorious. Soon enough, no one from his brood was cast down. They stood, and he remembered.

He rose and loomed above her, saying, "I have found new strength amongst the Forgeborn. I have added my steel to the Forge and they are my weapons of war." He held out his hand to her, then, asking, "Will you add your steel to the Forge, as well, and war against the madness of the clans, with me?" She was defeated, but his words stirred an alien feeling within her. She took his hand and dared to hope, for the first time in a long time. "I would see this strength for myself, Shame Breaker. I will see if it is enough to save our people." He lifted her to her feet, as the other warriors began to relax.

Eventually, they returned to the abbey, though their pace was slowed by the gravely injured Ronaag. His wounds seemed deeper than flesh and bone, however. Shadows seemed to torment him, and Zorubaash knew the anguish of the dark magic. He looked to Raashazur and saw torment within her own eyes, although Zorubaash assumed hers was more emotional and mental than a result of Syrdar's black mark, but he couldn't be sure. Both of them were taken to see Sanzor at the temple of Moradin. The Bloodfists were reluctant to seek aide in a human village, let alone to be inspected by dwarves, but Zorubaash had insisted, as Sanzor and Narvi knew well the mark of Syrdar and had broken its magic before. Narvi had indicated to Raashazur that a separate examination room had been prepared, but she would not be separated from her kinsman. She helped strip Ronaag for examination and then proceeded to disrobe, as well. Sanzor and Narvi were a little shocked, but Zorubaash assured them that this was normal for their kin. Orcs did not carry the same sense of shame and propriety as other races, and the dwarves would have a harder time getting either of them to abandon the other to some unknown examination room. As soon as Raashazur had removed her gear and clothing, however, Zorubaash noticed the mark upon her shoulder, red and festering, as his had once been before.

Raashazur's examination had been relatively brief, despite her gruff demeanor, her stiff-necked resistance, and general sour mood. Ronaag, however, took considerably longer to examine and begin to treat. While brother Broli jotted notes in the patient book, Sanzor explained that Ronaag's injuries were tainted by dark magic. It would need to be purged, before full rejuvenation could be attempted. The lesser spells to heal the wounds and reduce swelling had worked, but the graver wounds could not be so easily mended. It was as if they wanted to be open. Sanzor implored Zorubaash to seek a way to purge the corruption, soon, as he feared whatever dark magic was in the wounds and the marks would begin to take hold of the half-orc, himself. Zorubaash recalled what that magic had done to Mazoga's student, and he knew the threat was grave indeed. He thanked Sanzor and Narvi, paying them the customary fee, plus extra as a wedding gift for their union, and assured them that he would send a formal gift to their home, as well. He remembered how he'd fancied the rusty paladin, once before. Narvi had been one of the first women to take him head on, in drink and combat. She had no fear of standing up to the towering half-orc and had a practical humor that always made him laugh. He still remembered the beating she gave his shoulder, when he returned to town, with Nellothein on his arm. He wished them the very best, however. Narvi and Sanzor were an odd mix but well suited for each other. One was proper and polished, while the other was course and practical. It also helped that their union snubbed both of their families, which neither sought to be in good graces with and preferred to be left out of familial politics.

The band of orcs and half-orcs passed through the town, with no incident and many accolades, as the people of Venzor had come to appreciate their presence and protection. As they walked, Raashazur broke her surly silence and asked, "You make friends with these weaklings?" Zorubaash didn't stop or turn his head, as he replied, "There is strength beyond appearances, Raashazur. Just as weakness can be hidden by boasting. I have seen these people face impossible odds and hardship. I had helped them, because they had shown me kindness and did not look twice at my lineage. They value hard work and kind words. They live and love and seek a good harvest. They are like a second family." At this, she scoffed, "How many families do you have?" Zorubaash glanced over to her and replied, "I feel kinship to as many as feel the same towards me. As a wanderer, you learn to value your weapons, your wits, and your companions like your own flesh. You find that strength comes as much from without as it does from within." She smirked and said, "You sound like the shamans." He thought for a moment and then acknowledged, "Then perhaps they are not dead, after all." She looked over to him, with a slight expression of shock and confusion on her face. Then she began to examine him more closely. She noticed the tattoos and marks upon him. She saw the small bag around his neck and the bone blade at the small of his back, dwarfed by the immense blade resting between his shoulders. "So you are both chieftain and shaman, then?" she asked. "I practice both. For my people, I must lead. For the Bear, I must offer tithe and seek his counsel. The Forgemaster is the real shaman, however. She leads the heart of the people, as she tends the forge," he replied. "And where is she?" asked Raashazur. "You will meet my family soon enough. She is tending the forge and preparing the people for our return," he said, with a twinge of pride. "Family?" she asked. "You have a wife?" He smiled, broadly, and replied, "Wives! And a son." She fell silent, and he wondered her feelings, concerning this news, but kept his questions to himself for the remainder of the trip.

The sun dipped below the mountains and seemed to light the peaks ablaze, as the party neared the abbey. At the sight of the walls and the rooftops, Raashazur finally spoke up, "Is this another noble's house?" Zorubaash shook his head, smiling, and replied, "This is the Hall of the Noble Rat. It is both the home of Countess Abyth, her family, and my own." Now she shot him a look of confusion, saying, "I thought you lead a tribe of orcs. You have a fortress as well?!" He let out a sincere laugh and replied, "I lead the Forgeborn, and we reside within these walls, for now. My Rats and I have accumulated much through our adventures. We have saved the town of Venzor a few times, and we have set down roots here." The puzzled look on her face did not fade, as she asked, "Who are the rats?" At the mention of the Band of the Noble Rat, conversations and comments were heard amongst the party. Some told the story of Kleatus, the mighty Sea-Elf ranger. Others spoke of the beautiful and enchanting Drow bard, Camierlen. Still others spoke of the elegant blade dancer, Inassassir, his pet salamander, and his deadly daughter, Nerwyne. All around them, the warriors carried on with their stories. The mood had lightened at the mention of his Rats, and it made Zorubaash swell with pride. Turning his head to Raashazur, he replied, "They are my companions in combat and adventure. Together, we are the Band of the Noble Rat."


	10. The Returning Chieftain

At first, there was only darkness. Pain wracked the body of the noble chieftain, while screams of torment and mockery echoed in his mind. Then he was lifted to a sea of stars. He lay there, swimming in the endless expanse, and his heart began to calm. This was familiar. This was the land of the Sky Bear and its kin. This was the land of the ancestors, and in that moment, Zorubaash knew he had died. Then the grief of separation and the torment of his shameful fall gripped him. He roared in rage, silent at first, but then his voice became manifest amongst the plane of stars and echoed across the cosmos.

He roared for what seemed like an eternity and would have continued until the last of the stars winked out of existence, if it weren't for the still voice beside him. "Why do you roar in rage and torment, young chieftain?" it asked. He knew the voice and ceased his raging. He turned to look and was at once standing upon the field of stars, beside the Bear, once again. "I roar against an ignoble defeat and the machinations of my enemy," he stated, his rage still smoldering. "I rage against fate." The Bear looked to him and spoke, "and yet it is fate that has led you here." He glowered at the Bear and growled, "it is You who has led me here! I followed and have fallen along your path." The Bear bowed its mighty head, as it replied, "I only guide those who seek me, as I have your ancestors. It is your fate to fall thus." The rage within him boiled, and he bellowed, "then I curse this fate and will break it as I had broken Syrdar's curse upon my flesh and Zanarick's bones beneath my feet! I will not be bound by these shackles!" The Bear looked at him quizzically and asked, "And what would give you such power, young chieftain, the power to break fate?" At this, Zorubaash squared his shoulders and faced the Bear fully, replying, "The love of my people and the strength of the Forge, the pride of a thousand generations and countless clans." The Great Bear did not mock but simply replied, "Is their love for you and its power so great to undo the threads that bind you?" Zorubaash looked down at his hands, saying, "Not theirs, but mine. My love for them is great. They are my pride, my treasure. I would rend the heavens to return to them and break the evil that seeks to undo us all."

The Bear almost smirked, "Proud words and mighty claims, indeed, oh chieftain, but words and emotions cannot undo the fates that bind us all. Death will always claim us, in the end, even the gods." Zorubaash beat his fist against his chest and proclaimed, "Then I shall claim a power greater than the gods, greater than death. Mark me, Okumo, Great Sky Bear, I will return to my people. I will forge a new path for us all." At this, the Bear began to chuckle, a low, mirthful growl, escaping its lips. The laughing growl became a roar of laughter, a cacophony amongst the star sea. Almost another eternity seemed to pass, before the Bear was again quiet and calm. It then spoke to the chieftain, "I have marked you, oh chieftain. Your body bore the marks of victory and prophecy that I and my kin gave you. Now, that body is naught but the ash and smoke of a long dead funeral pyre. The pride of your people has been returned to them, and they carry on without you. Let it go, orcling." At this, Zorubaash rounded on the Bear, focusing his rage into a burning fury and pointing it all at the beast before him, "YOU! You are not Okumo. Show yourself, deceiver, that I may split your face for this mockery."

Zorubaash only sought to point an accusing finger at the creature, pretending to be the Sky Bear, but what erupted from his hands, born of his rage and pride, was the blade of his people, bathed in the fires of the stars themselves. The thing before him did not shrink back, however, though its countenance showed great surprise. It shifted its form and became the image of a dark robed lady. Pulling back her hood to reveal a pale, almost elven face, she spoke, "You...you are able to call forth the blade, even across the planes. Your fury is indeed great, but the love of your people shines even more." He did not drop the blade, as he spoke, "I know you. I have seen your image on walls in forgotten temples and heard of your ways from my friend. You are Laylem, Goddess of the Lost." She nodded her head, stating, "I am as you say, and you are Zorubaash Forgeborn, chieftain of a lost people and now lost, yourself." At this, he lowered his blade, but remained defiant, saying, "I am not lost. I am in the home of the Spirits. I have walked this plane with my brother, Okumo the Bear, and his kin. Even if it takes me an eternity, I will walk this sea, until the Guiding Star leads me home."

At this, there almost seemed to be pity in her eyes. She raised a hand and spoke, "You are lost, oh chieftain. You are a spirit without a body. What earthen vessel once housed your mighty presence is now broken ash." That which he already knew to be true struck him, again, but he still remained defiant, stating, "Then I shall find a new body. I shall cross the planes, even through the halls of the gods, themselves, claiming new flesh and returning to my people." At this, she smirked, "I see there is no dissuading you, Goremash." The use of his familiar name was almost unsettling, yet it recalled familiar memories of his friends and the place he once called home. She continued, "The path you choose is the hardest, yet. Only a god can cross the planes unscathed and return to a realm they once ruled. Even then, their ways are a mystery and times shift like swirling sand." He placed the blade upon his back, and as if in response, a sheath and harness formed across his shoulders to carry it. He moved closer to her, with calm resolve, "Then I will forge the path I must and return to them, however I can. I will not abandon my people. Death can war with me all it wants. It can curse my very existence and hunt me across the planes, but I will return to my people, if only to see them prosper before I depart for the final journey."

She placed the hood back upon her head, and her face became instantly occluded, as she spoke in crystal whispers, "So be it, Chief Zorubaash. You shall indeed walk a long path, and we will see if it will lead you home. Though you are currently lost, you are most lucky. I have taken interest in you, due in no small part to the affection my paladin has for you." At her words, he saw images of his friend, Darth, praying as he always did, but this time with earnest. His words were unheard, but Zorubaash felt every syllable. They beat against his heart like a hammer against the anvil, and the ringing filled his ears and stoked the fires within him. "For this journey, I will grant you a boon," she said. "A returning champion must have a body, but there is none in the world you left which would suit you. I will, therefore, cast your spirit into another you, from another place." This truly puzzled him, and he stood in bewilderment, as she approached him, saying, "Go then, mighty chieftain. Claim a power beyond the gods and find your people, again, for all our sake."

At this, she pulled his head into her hood, and he felt ice cold lips upon his. Unlike the sweet kiss of death, this was bracing, and his first instinct was to fight against her grasp, but her hands were like wrought iron. He could not budge, as he seemed to be drawn deeper into the darkness of her hood and cloak, deeper into the kiss of...life! He felt his heart pound in his chest, and he gulped air back into his lungs. His body ached, as he heaved a great weight off of himself. He picked himself up off the cool earth, in the dead of night, and steadied himself, as his senses slowly returned to him. He looked over at the great heap he had hefted, and as his sight returned, he realized that it had been an Owlbear. His eyes swept the clearing around him, and he noticed several others, each with mortal wounds upon them. He then looked to himself, searching for any fatal wounds that would surely spell a second doom. He noticed several, which were already stitching themselves back together. As his flesh reformed over bone and sinew, his tattoos returned, as if they were the fabric of his flesh. As he examined them, to see if any had changed, he marveled at one he had not seen before. Upon his chest, above his thundering heart, was a white hand, encircled by ancient runes and interwoven images of the primal spirits. The Soaring Eagle, Earthen Serpent, Hoary Elk, Black Wolf, Swift Hair, Golden Lion, Prowling Jaguar, Brazen Bull and Mighty Bear were all paraded around the white hand and threaded through what looked like a raven's skull. In his ears he heard a silent, crystal voice, "I have marked you, chieftain. Remember and find your people, again. Return the blade and save them all."

Instinctively, Zorubaash reached for the great blade between his shoulders, and for a moment he feared it would not be there. As his hand gripped the handle, however, he was filled with the warmth of his memories and the call of the Forge rang in his ears. He drew the blade from it's sheath. It seemed to sing as it slid forth, and he held it aloft, in victory. He roared in pride and with great joy, beholding the symbol of his people, still in his hands. He roared, until no air was left in his lungs, until the forest around him shook with his challenge to the heavens. Drawing breath back into his lungs, he also drew the blade close to his face and spoke to it, as if speaking to his queen, once more, "I will not forsake you. I will return."

With that, he sheathed the blade and took inventory of the items he found on his person. A bag of shaman's tools, a hunting knife, a quiver of javelins, a leatherworking kit, some potions, some balms and salves, rope, a bedroll, a waterskin, and several rations seemed to be among them. He then noticed the mighty belt about his girth, and realized the goddess had granted him an additional boon. He beheld the belt, emblazoned with fire, that he had claimed from Zanarick's horde, and he could once again feel the power coursing through him, giving him the strength of vulcanaic giants. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks. He did not know what gods inhabited these lands, if he was indeed in some other world, but he would not forget her, just as he would not forget his people or the Spirits who had walked with him for so many years. From the belt hung the hide and scales of a mighty bronze dragon...an ancient one. Upon his arm and legs, were its bones and claws. From upon his head, he removed the headdress his people had fashioned from its horns. It was gilded, this time, and a crimson gem was nested at the center. As he looked within it, he could see a smoldering fire, and it called to the Forge within him. "Indeed," he marveled to himself, "she has blessed me." Once again, he turned to the sky and its ocean of stars, bellowing, "I will remember, and I will return! You are forgotten no longer, and I am reborn. I AM ZORUBAAAAAAAASH!"

In a neighboring town, that borders a great fey wood, infants woke from their slumber, wailing in defiance. Guards readied their shields and spears, rushing to the gates of their garrison. The people were shaken from fitful dreams, as a mighty roar was heard within the forest, and minds wondered if a great dragon had been awoken from its long slumber. Night animals sought shelter, and even prowling predators did not leave their lairs, for fear of being devoured. A great beast, clad in the fur and feathers of mighty owlbears emerged from the forest, that night. His hunger was insatiable, and he roamed in search of something no one had. He was returned and is returning, wandering a world not his own. A grave promise hung upon his lips, and fire burned in his eyes. He was Zorubaash Forgeborn, and the realms would be forever changed by his passage.

~ Song of the Returning Chieftain (bard unknown)


	11. New Taverns, New Tales

The hulking, gray half-orc sat in a corner of the tavern, contemplating the amber beverage in his tankard, while bards played and silken women danced. He had come to this town, along his seemingly endless journey, in search of something he didn't know could exist. For a year now, he had wandered the lands, taking jobs fit for a hunter and a warrior of his skill. Here and there, he had saved a town or two from cults and beasts or some caravans from bandits and pillagers, but always he moved onwards. Never again would he settle in a town or claim another clan. This was not his world. These were not his people. He longed to look upon the great hall of adventurers he had been torn from, to embrace his lost friends and share ale, again, in the Hall of the Noble Rat. He yearned to caress the cheeks of his wives and pat the heads of his children, but they were, all, still far from him. For a moment, he wondered if another clan of Forgeborn existed in this world. If another Kleatus walked the world, accompanied by the dark paladin, Darth. The blade upon his back, its great weight and subtle warmth, reminded him, however, that even if it were possible, they were not those he longed to see. A chill thought then crossed his mind, as he pondered the possibility of others, and a cruel smile crept across his pensive face. If he ever encountered a Drow sorcerer, named Syrdar, he would split his skull just for spite.

His heart began to pound, even before he heard the voice. The hand upon his chest began to pulse, not in pain but anticipation. A robed figure had approached and greeted him. "Hail, warrior," came a woman's voice from within the hood, and he almost assumed that Laylem stood before him, but her visage was not as shadowed nor her words as silently profound in his ears. "I hear you are for hire, in this town," she continued, and he ceased pondering his drink. He peered beyond the shadows cast by candlelight and oil lamps, his fierce eyes perceiving dark features and a wisp of silvery hair. If not for her voice, he would have mistaken her for a hated foe and struck her dead, as he'd promised himself, earlier. Regardless, he took on a stern gaze, one of gruff business. "It iz no secret," he replied, frankly. "I haff told my bizness to de barkeeps and paid bardz to sing songz or tell talez. An old friend taught me dat fame and infamy valk hand-in-hand, and both vill bring bizness to h'your table." The hooded Drow nodded and replied, "Your friend is wise. Business has indeed approached your table." He sat back a little, shifting the blade to rest his shoulders against, and waved a hand for her to sit. "Den speak h'your bizness, woman. I vill listen." She took a seat, opposite him, but did not remove her hood. He expected this, as Drow were neither common nor well liked in these parts. They had a nasty reputation, mostly due to the truth of their long history of enslaving other races, cruelty to all, and power games in the shadows. Zorubaash had been blessed to know a few good Drow in his travels in the previous life, but he had not met any here, not yet.

He finished his tankard and waved for another. A buxom wench swept by the table and placed another before him, collecting the empty one, then glancing to the side, she asked him, "And for your lady friend?" At this, he grumped, "Not 'lady friend'. Iz just lady, and she haz her own tongue." The wench looked over to the hooded figure, a little startled at the barbarian's gruff reply. "A-apologies! Would you care for anything?" she stammered, and Zorubaash wondered if she had taken his words to mean the Drow was somehow nobility. He didn't know, but nor did he really care. For a moment, the Drow said nothing, but eventually she said, "Wine will be acceptable." Her words were cold and guarded. The wench trotted off, with another quick glance to Zorubaash, who winked, in reply. "You are a grim companion, barbarian," the Drow said, after the wench was out of earshot. "I am who I need to be, woman, just as h'you are h'you. H'you do not share my bed, nor are h'you my companion. H'you are bizness at my table," came his reply, plainly. "I am no friend uff h'your kin, dough zum haff called me 'companion' and haff been guarded by my blade...while odders haff found demselves impaled upon it." At this, she shifted, slightly, and said, "So you have met my kind, before?" There was a prideful venom to her voice, and he knew he had pricked her a bit. "Vas long time ago," he said with a distant gaze. "Anodder life, but yes. I haff met h'your kin and know better den to say vatt h'you are before strangers." She sniffed, haughtily, and retorted, "Then you are wiser than your kin." He smirked at this. He had unsettled her and made her drop the air of superiority, if for a moment. No matter how lethal or powerful, a Drow would be suicidal to cause a commotion in such a crowded place and leave unscathed. She could likely kill him in an instant, but she would be revealed, hunted, and her corpse would be hung upon the ramparts by the next dawn, and she knew it. She had come here in stealth, to speak with him, anonymously, and he knew this. They were here for business, and he would keep it strictly business, for now, at least.

For a time, they merely sat in silence, staring at and assessing one another. Eventually, the wench returned, with a horn cup of wine. The Drow slipped her some coin, with a gloved hand. The wench accepted it and then sauntered over to Zorubaash, with a bashful look in her eyes. "Will there be anything else, warrior?" she asked, playfully. He swung his knee behind hers, causing her to sit, abruptly, upon it. He leaned in, with a wolfish grin, saying, "I am hungry for fair wench, dis night. Perhaps I should gobble h'you up." She squealed playfully, as he nuzzled her neck. There was a pointed cough from across the table, and he shot a sly glare over to the hooded figure. Drawing away from the wench, he said, "Alas, my patron haz bizness to discuss. Perhaps after bizness iz time for pleasure." She stood and bent down to whisper a tantalizing invitation into his ear, and Zorubaash chuckled, wolfishly, as she scampered away, being called by other customers. He turned his full attention to the Drow and raised his tankard, saying, "To bizness, den?" She also raised her cup and tilted her head, replying, "To business."

Zorubaash took a deep drag of the ale, set down the tankard, and wiped the foam from his lips, revealing the mark upon his chin. The Drow set down her cup and pointed at his lower lip, asking, "Where did you get that mark?" His mirthful smirk turned stern, and he replied, "Iz mark of von who broke hiz people's shame, vith blade and fire. Von who vill lead dem, again." The Drow folder her hands and said, thoughtfully, "People? From what I hear, gray orcs, such as you, live far into the mountains, but here you are in the lowlands. Are you outcast?" Now it was his turn to be riled, as he growled, "I am between. I am Forgeborn, and vill find my people, again." At this, she smirked and parted her hands, saying, "Then perhaps we can help each other. I was going to commission you for a bit of treasure hunting. There is a town with a bit of a...deadly problem, to the south. Within a crypt on the outskirts of the town, there is a powerful gem that seems to bring the dead back to life."

At the mention of the undead, he leaned over his tankard, stating, "De restless dead are a bad omen. Anyting dat does dis should be destroyed, not collected." She held up a hand, and replied, "Normally I would agree, but this object has other powers, ones to see beyond the veil and call things forth or send them away." Zorubaash raised a dubious eyebrow. The Drow continued, "I seek the gem in order to find out what is going on beyond this material realm and stop something that may be trying to come through." Zorubaash grunted and took another drink. She held out an open hand and said, "Along with payment, I could offer to show you your people and possibly a way to reunite with them." He put down his tankard, almost too eagerly, asking, "h'you could do such tings, vith just a bauble?" She continued, with a hungry gleam in her eyes, "It is very powerful. It is entirely possible that I could do this. It is certain that my patron could."

At this, he looked at her, incredulously, asking, "Dis iz first time h'you mention patron. Who iz he?" Again, she held up her hand, stating, "He prefers to remain anonymous, but promises great rewards for those who help us. What say you, barbarian?" Zorubaash took another swig and said, "I say coin speaks louder den promises and anonymous patrons." She reached within her robes and tossed a small pouch across the table. He picked it up and opened it to reveal a tidy amount of platinum coins. He quickly tied up the pouch and stuck it in his bag, so as not to alert preying eyes. He then leveled his gaze at the mysterious woman, picked up his tankard, and stated, "It seems h'your patron speaks loud enuff. Dis payment now, plus more on completion, vith promise of favor aftervards?" She shook her hooded head and replied, "This payment now, plus whatever you can gather in the crypts, and favors after." He scowled at her, stating, "Der iz no guarantee of loot to be found in crypts. Vould prefer guaranteed payment." She held up her hands, in surrender, stating, "That's all I have, save my travel fund. There is talk of a reward from the town, for ending the blight." She then waved a dismissive hand, continuing, "I'm sure you could collect that as well. Besides, my patron is generous to those who aid him. He may well give me extra coin to pass along."

He pondered this for a moment, the thought of more rewards and a boon weighing against his distaste for necromancy. Finally, he gave a stern nod and held out a mighty hand, saying, "Very well. I vill find dis gem, collect revards, and patron vill grant favor." She placed a dainty hand in his great mitt, and he gripped it tightly. Then he squeezed, and she yelped. He could feel the mithral chain that lined her glove, and his sharp eyes could see other items upon her person, things of magic and steel. He drew her, forcefully, closer to the candle in the center of the table, as he leaned in to see her face clearly. There was a slight wince of pain on her face. Her purple eyes held a bit of fear, mixed with a glare of wrath, and he smiled, mirthless, as he said, "I am first hunter of my people and haff led dragonborn to track behirs in frozen vastes. I haff collected Illithid skullz for trophies. Cross me, and I vill hunt h'you to the ends of dis vorld and present h'your head to h'your patron, az message." She paled at the mention of such fearsome foes, and squawked, "I shall not! I swear it!" He glowered at her and squeezed her hand tighter, feeling her delicate bones begin to creak, even beneath her mailed gloves. Now terror truly gripped her, and she whispered, "I swear upon my patron and my life. I shall not." At this, he instantly loosened his grip and released her hand, which she clutched close to her chest, rubbing it tenderly. She shot him a spiteful glare, and he laughed. "Ha! Good!" he said, mirthfully. "Den vee haff bizness agreement." She scowled, asking, "But how do I know you will keep your end?" His smile didn't fade, as he replied, "Den h'you vill find odder fools to enter crypt for bauble and can promise dem treasure upon my corpse. Eider vay, h'you vill not be risking lovely neck in crypts." She smirked and replied, "I suppose not. Very well. 'We have business', as you say."

Her words were cold, but Zorubaash did not care, anymore. His head was full of ale, and his eyes wandered for the lovely wench that had made him a promise. She caught his gaze and approached, swaying her shapely hips. "Is business concluded, then?" she asked, demurely. "Shall I get you another drink?" He grinned, broadly, and replied, "Vhy not? And von for my bizness partner." He cast his hand over to a now empty seat and was a bit surprised. It was then that he noticed the mark upon his chest no longer throbbed and realize that his keen senses, no matter how fuzzy from ale, had not perceived her passing. "She is tricky," he though to himself. The wench giggled, playfully, and said, "It seems she could not handle her drink or your company. One more, then?" He chuckled and shook his head, saying, "I haff finished mine, and I now tirst for someting sveeter." He smirked, playfully, at her, as his hungry eyes crept across her form. She blushed and said, "My shift is not over. I still have coin to make." He would not be dissuaded, however. His hunger was strong, and he stood, towering above her. "H'you vould deny a varrior his dessert?" he asked, feigning a pained expression. She glanced about and waved to another bar wench. She looked back at him, placing a lustful hand upon his firm stomach, and saying, "One moment. I'll see if she will cover my tables." He leaned against the wall, watching her backside, as she trotted over to a coworker, the hungry smirk not leaving his face. There was a brief conversation between the two women and a few glances in his direction. He had to admit, the other woman was a feast for the eyes as well. Eventually, she returned, setting her serving tray upon the table and undoing the apron about her waist. "She agreed," she said, hastily, "but we must leave, before Tarvik, the barkeep, sees us." He nodded, and she took his hand, leading him quickly around a crowd of rowdy customers, making sure to keep them between her and the watchful glances of the barkeep. Zorubaash smiled all the more, and began to chuckle at this little game. He felt like some young lover, stealing into some lord's keep to ravish his "kept" daughter, and he liked it. As she led him up the stairs, she looked back and said, "We owe Mirrah for this." Zorubaash looked at her, mischievously, asking, "Vat do I owe her?" She looked back at him, with a grin, and replied, "You'll find out later, but for now, you're all mine." He laughed, as she led him straight to his room, above the tavern.

Zorubaash sat up in the bed, the next morning, rubbing the fog from his eyes. The fair form beside him shifted and let out a sigh. He smiled in satisfaction, as the alcohol-infused cobwebs cleared from his mind and he began to recall all that he had done and had been done to him. Mirrah had joined them, after a time, but she had left after her lust had been sated. Alma had remained, however, preferring to bathe in the afterglow and recline in the embrace of a surprisingly gentle, barbarian lover. He didn't know if it was the thrill of sleeping with an untamed barbarian or the allure of his exotic pedigree that drew her to him, but he didn't much care. He enjoyed her company and the sweet pleasures of her flesh, all the same.

He let himself out of the bed, making sure not to wake her, as she had been wearied by their long night. He paused for a moment and wondered when he had become so conscious of others, and he was taken back to the years he spent carefully studying and seeking to follow the ways of his people, the Forgeborn. He recalled how foreign their ways had been to a wandering barbarian from the harsh mountain tribes and how they had struggled, at first, to understand one another. Maybe those exercises in understanding taught him to be more aware of those around him. Maybe it was just the fact that he needed to leave early and didn't want her delaying him. He didn't ponder this long, however, as he began to ready and buckle his gear, checking placement and counting his rations. He'd need to pick up a few items at the early shops, but he could do that on the way out of town. He had a job, now, a mission...a hunt. Looking through his bag, he pulled out a note he did not recognize. Opening it, he realized it was instructions from the Drow. She'd meet him in the next town or send another. Regardless, she made it clear that she would find him, not the other way around. He almost chuckled out loud, if not for trying to remain stealthy. He set a small bag of coin upon the dresser as a thank you, and left the room, silently. He paid his tab with the morning shift and left the tavern. The early morning was cool, and he drew his cloak about his shoulders but left the hood down. Soon the sun would be up, and he liked to greet it with a bare face and feel the rays against his skin. They were warm and reminded him of the glow a forge, brilliant in a humble tent so very far away.


	12. Predators by Firelight

The night was wrapping up. He had noticed other lizardfolk of the Terrawave pair up and wander out of the tavern, purring and baring teeth to one another. Others left with their hunting parties or what he assumed to be kin. Zorubaash’s party had also dawdled off to their beds, at the inn. After the excitement of the evening came to an abrupt end, they had gathered and agreed to meet in the morning to watch the trial of these troublesome newcomers, wandering adventurers that had caused a ruckus upon the docks of the floating village. If nothing else, it would be a little more entertainment, before Appledore, Alfar, and himself must leave for the next leg of their journey. It seems they had acquired new members, who were traveling in the same direction. It would be good to travel with a full party, after the abrupt demise of two others. Though he did not miss the others, terribly, Zorubaash understood that he was relatively new, and the others were good friends to those they left behind. He whispered a quiet prayer to the spirits, wishing the missing members good hunting in the final journey. He then began to ponder the missing elf girl, Rosalinde. Details of her disappearance disturbed him, but he could not piece it all together, this night. Between the tankards of ale and the sweet aromas of the tavern oil, mixed with herbs to repel pestering insects, his mind was foggy. It didn’t help that he was paying a great deal of attention to the tavern keeper. She was a rare specimen in this town of lizardfolk. As she went about her work, he noticed the grace with which she moved. Her frame, though slender, was powerful and steady. There was not a single misstep or wobble to her gate. She did not lumber, like so many of the males, despite her great size. She almost swam through the crowds and around the tables. If not for the key difference in their appearance, it would be hard to tell male from female. Most lizardfolk sounded the same. There was little difference in their voice patterns and tones. Their forms were also similar. Reptilian in appearance, they did not carry an excess of fat or curves, like mammalian species, especially in the chest. In fact, most lizardfolk that he had met only wore a covering about their waist, if that much. In times past, Zorubaash had indeed confused the males and females among them, but through observation and a hunter’s eye for detail, he had come to notice key differences. Male spines and head or dorsal frills were larger and more vibrant. These were meant to attract mates, as well as provide better protection from other predators. Male builds were also more bulky, meant to overpower and fend off others. Females tended to be more muted and slender for better speed, evasion, and stealth.

He observed, also, that lizardfolk bore regional traits that denoted their place of origin, adaptations and characteristics that made them adept in their native environments. He marveled at the diversity, as a good hunter or ranger would appreciate the elegance of the other creatures around them, while in the wilderness. That night, however, his attentions continuously returned to the matron of the tavern. Like other of her kin, her leathery skin was bathed in verdant hues. Dark brown, oblong stripes ran across her body, like the lake grass he had seen in the lake or possibly the shadows that leaves and other floating debris would cast upon the lake bottom. Along her legs and tail, however, her skin took on a twinge of blue and the striping faded to a simple, solid hue, midway down.

He must have been admiring her coloring for too long or too intensely, for when she passed him, on one of her deliveries to a table, she hissed, quietly, in common tongue, “H’you like hwhat h’you ssseee?” He blinked and caught the faintest smile, curling her long lips, as her tongue flicked ever so slightly on the pronunciation of such foreign words. Zorubaash recalled something he had heard the dragonborn hunters say, when they spotted something of interest on their hunts. He replied, in the tongue he had learned from them, “It excites.” As he turned to follow her form with his head, he noticed the hue of her feet and tail turn a brighter blue and wondered if it was her way of blushing. He felt her mighty tail, easily the girth of his arms, brush and trail past his leg, gently, and he thought it odd. She was so careful not to bump or graze her patrons. He breathed in, pensively, and noticed that a pleasant smell followed her. He was unsure if it was the fragrance of the lamps, some perfumed oil, or simply her own. Unlike the lizardfolk of the swamps he had encountered, these lake dwellers seemed to have a sweeter aroma, that of fresh water, rains, and water grass. It also helped that they dined on fresh fish, instead of the murky denizens of bogs and mires.

As the last of the patrons wandered out of the tavern to their homes and beds, Zorubaash stood, finishing his tankard, and set a handful of coin upon the table. A leathery hand, tipped with dark claws crept over his, as a great, reptilian head peeked around the side of his vision, with a low growl. She had crept up behind him, almost without any sound, and he could smell that sweet aroma, again. She pressed against him, saying in her native tongue, “You would leave that which excites?” There was a playful twinge of offense to her tone, and he smirked, baring his tusks a little more than he intended. She must have took this as a good sign, because the low growl turned to more of a purr, and she snaked her head under his chin, the ridges and bumps at the top gently scraping under his jaw. “Bare those mighty tusks at me, and I might get the wrong idea,” she almost cooed. He recalled how other lizardfolk couples had bared their teeth at one another, growling and chirping, before leaving for the night. As she tilted her head to look up at him, again, he bore his teeth, playfully, and growled, “I would not want to disappoint, but I only have a night. We will likely leave, after we speak with the chieftain.” She lifted her head from under his, baring her own teeth, and chirped, saying, “I only need the night, and would not ask more of a chieftain.” He didn’t know what to make of that last part, but she had already taken his hand, leading him towards the back of the tavern, while her tail twitched excitedly, behind her.

She led him through the now empty kitchen, in which she still seemed to swim through, bending low and coaxing him on, with flicks from her tail, which was now an aquamarine color. Down a stairway at the back of the kitchen, she opened a door at the back of a long hallway, passing another marked as “storage”. This one had no mark, so far as he could see, unless it was marked in some other way that his own senses couldn’t detect. She led him inside and swam around the room, lighting a few extra lamps, these burning with a different scented oil than those used in the tavern. As the room came alive with dancing lamplight, Zorubaash’s eyes wandered, as they do, searching for he didn’t know what but finding much, indeed. This was not just some bedchamber, nor was it merely a room. This was a den, nestled below the docks and submerged. The windows were like a ship’s portholes, circular and well-sealed. Beyond, he could begin to see fish, attracted by the warm glow of the lamps. There was no furniture, within the room. It was made for a much larger creature than he and one who did not prefer tables and chairs. Towards the rear of the room was a small stove, providing what he suspected was invigorating warmth for the lizardwoman. Nearby was what looked to be a sleeping area, covered with cushions and pelts. He liked this. It reminded him of his own preference for bedding, simple yet comfortable. His eyes continued to scan the room, taking note of the walls. Upon them were hung spears, harpoons, line, buoys, and trophies. This was a hunter’s den. The woman that called this home knew her trade and plied it often.

He was admiring a particularly well-crafted harpoon, with a thin spool of thread attached, most likely much stronger than it appeared, when he heard purring coming from the other side of the room. He looked over his shoulder, and say that the lizardwoman was observing him with no small amount of pride at the things he had noticed. She tilted her head, smiling, and chirped, “You like?” He nodded, with stern approval, stating, “It reminds me of my war tent, full of weapons and trophies.” He turned to her and nodded his head towards the wall, saying, “These are good and useful tools for hunting. And these trophies are of good hunts.” He then leveled his gaze upon her, baring his tusks with an excited grin, and said, “You must be a good hunter, as well as tavern keeper. These are well-kept and well-used, not just for show.” At this, she moved away from the stove and fully into the lamplight, purring loudly, now. She rose to her full height, and Zorubaash realized just how incredible she was. She was at least a head and a half above him, and he was larger than most. He realized now why she took such caution in the tavern and always seemed to swim. She was stooping, and the swimming motion of her walk was, likely from a lifetime of hunting in the lake, a comfortable and familiar alternative to slouching and creeping in a cramped space. Here, she had no need to crouch, however. This was her lair, her domain, and she was indeed aware of it. In the lamplight he could see her pail, leathery skin, the oblong ends of the marks that ran across her backside and arms a stark contrast to the lighter green. He also noted that although the now vibrant blue of her tail and hind legs stopped before reaching her abdomen a pale blue was beginning to outline the striping and form dots within the dark brown marks. Was this a sign of arousal? Was this something that indicated a desire for mating, within her people?

She approached him, as she continued to purr, a hungry look in her eye. “I am Yisk, ‘She Who Hauls Many Fish’. This is my home and my bed,” she said, as she began to walk slowly around him, almost like a predator sizing up her prey. “Would you share it with me, warrior chieftain?” she asked. Now he knew what she had said earlier was not just a turn of phrase. He locked eyes with her, as she came around his left side, and asked, “That is the second time you have called me this. Why?” Her eyes were like deep pools of a volcanic lake, in this light, rimmed by her vibrant green irises, flecked with gold. They squinted as she smiled, revealing a row of needle sharp teeth, and cooed, “The spirits tell me that you are chieftain. The Great Sky Serpent says that you are mighty hunter and far-walker. I have no reason to doubt this.” She had almost encircled him, now, and her head was directly before him, her deep eyes piercing into his flesh and seeking truth. He replied, “I am these things. The Spirits do not lie. I follow Okumo, the Sky Bear, and run with Akeela, the Great Wolf. I am Zorubaash Forgeborn, chieftain of a lost tribe and mighty hunter.”

As he said this, he removed his cloak, revealing his tattoos and the great blade upon his back. She seemed to feel the heat from the blade and within his body and she drew closer, pressing her body against his. She lay her head upon his shoulder, examining the blade. “This is a mighty weapon,” she purred, and he could feel it ripple through her body, like a shudder of excitement. “I have only seen ones like this in the hands of champions and chieftains.” He unfastened the blade, and she stepped back, a look of caution in her eyes. They both recognized each other for what they truly were: predators. He did not draw the blade from its scabbard, however. An enemy did not stand before him, and to draw the blade for show would be a dishonor to his people. He set it against the wall, beside the harpoon he had been admiring. “It is the pride of my people,” he stated with reverence, “I carry it with honor and in their memory.”

He undid the buckles of his chest harness and manica, removing the dragon bone armor his people had crafted from Zanarick’s remains. As he set it beside the blade, she tilted her head, examining the equipment. “These are mighty bones, ancient and powerful,” she said, with awe. As he began to unfasten his belt and the scales about his waist, he sighed, “They are the bones of Zanarick, a once mighty dragon and now a fallen enemy. At the mention of a dragon, she perked up, with a growl. He didn’t know if he had been too irreverent towards the once mighty and ancient beast. He set the belt and scaled skirt beside the bones, stating, “He had been betrayed and corrupted by dark magic, becoming a dracolich.” For a moment, he faced the bones and scales, recalling the tale, “We were to be sacrifices for his insatiable soul hunger. We climbed out of his dungeon and slew him upon his horde, claiming his bones and hide as our marks of victory. We defied death, that day, and I returned to my people, with his skull.” At this, he removed the headdress made of the dragon’s horns, letting his raven hair fall upon his broad shoulders. He looked upon the gem in the center for a moment, beholding the fire within. He placed it upon the pile and stepped back, offering a prayer of thanks.

He turned to face her, then, and noticed that the growl had not diminished. He noted that there didn’t seem to be any menace to it, however. It seemed to be one of anticipation, as she again approached him. She ran her leathery hands along his chest and shoulders, exploring the ripples and occasional twitch of his muscles against the press of her cool flesh. She began to sniff him and cooed, “Indeed, you are mighty, hunter. You have slain a once dead sky serpent and claimed its bones.” Her hands continued to explore him, as she purred, “The spirits still cling to them and add their strength to your own.” She placed one of her large hands upon the mark Laylem had given him, and it began to pulse upon his chest, as his heart began to drum beneath it. This was a meeting of deadly creatures, and it excited him. Her head was beside his, nuzzling against his mane and smelling the scent of the wilderness and smoke upon it. He began to growl with his own excitement, baring his teeth and scraping his tusks along the ridges and scales that framed her cheek. “You said only one night and that you would ask no more of a chieftain, but what is it that you need from me?” She did not move her head, except to further nestle in his locks, as her hands began to creep into his pants, undoing the ties holding his breeches in place and fishing out her prize. She cooed in his ear, as she cradled his genitals in her sure grip, “I desire a mate, one who is beyond this world and who walks with the spirits. One who has slain kings of the skies and claimed their bones.” She withdrew from him, suddenly, as she bore her teeth with a playful hiss, spreading her arms wide to reveal her full, imposing, naked form. She wrapped her flushed tail around his midsection, and he could feel heat emanating from it, matching his own. “I need you, chieftain,” she growled, as she spun, flinging him into the cushions with her mighty tail.

His back struck with enough force to coax a grunt from his lips. He did not have time to recover his senses, as she pounced upon him, with a playful roar. The sudden assault of a hulking predator, despite not being an actual threat, triggered his feral instincts, and Zorubaash could feel fire coursing through his body as he returned her roar with his own, though not in time to prevent her from pinning him to the bedding with her mighty hands and immense frame. The roar settled to a purr, again, as she rested her chest between his legs, her hands pinning his arms at his sides. She nuzzled her head against his groin, coaxing his cock further from his pants and began to sniff his sack and shaft. She flicked her tongue as she explored, tasting him and the excitement leaking from his tip. He twitched as her cool scales contacted his sensitive parts and the tongue tickled along his nethers. This seemed to entice her more. She dipped her head below his sack, opening her mouth wide, to show rows of angled, sharp teeth, perfect for catching and holding large fish. A moment of fear skipped across his heart, as he wondered if she was going to take more than a night of pleasure from him, but she extended her long, serpentine tongue to its full length, reaching inside his partially dropped pants and snaking around his engorged sack. She removed her hands from his arms, raking her claws along their length, eliciting a slight wince from the enraged barbarian. Though she did not dig deep, his flesh rose in welts along the scratches, flush with the blood and excitement now thundering through his body. Her claws hooked inside the waist of his breeches, and she drew them the remainder of the way off his legs. She then crept her hands back up his legs, as her tongue continued to squirm and coil around his genitals, coaxing soft growls from Zorubaash.

She drew her head up, letting her tongue trail and flick along his shaft, now slick with her saliva. She slurped her tongue back into her mouth and grinned, cooing, “This is mine, for the night. I claim it.” He began to reply, but her head and body shot forward, silencing his mouth with her own, scaly lips. He felt her tongue flick inside and writhe around his own, before retreating back into her mouth. She then ran the edges of her lips and jaw along his tusks, hissing, “This is also mine for the night. I claim it.” He did not speak, now. He only bore his teeth, presenting his tusks, and nodded his understanding. She would take her night with him, and he would oblige. This almost seemed to be a need they both felt, that they would share.

She then perched upon him, like a victorious hunter, examining her prey. Her hips began to rock, as she continued to examine him, enjoying the feast of brawny, gray, half-orc flesh before her serpentine eyes. He felt something soft and slick pressing against his rigid cock. His eyes traced down her neck and torso, seeking the moist flesh rubbing against his genitals. She caught his gaze wandering down her frame, and he could feel a shudder course through her body. She cooed, “You wish to see the sheath I have for your fire sword?” She did not wait for an answer, as she slid her abdomen up his body, slowly, tracing moist flesh along the ripples of his stomach and between his pectorals. He felt another shudder run through her, the rippling and twitching of his muscles seeming to stimulate her further. Eventually, she presented her genitals to him, now flush with blood and slick with excitement. Towering over him, she looked down, cradling his head between her steely hands and entwining her claws within his sable mane. “Here, chieftain,” she cooed, “Here is my hidden pool. Here is my need, and I demand satisfaction,” she hissed, with anticipation.

He growled with desire, the sweet scent of her moisture filling his nostrils. It smelled of freshly caught fish upon a pebble-strewn lakeside, and he exhaled in hunger. His warm breath, scalding upon her engorged flesh, sent a tremor of pleasure through her towering frame, and she clutched the back of his head, pulling it towards her lustful opening, with irresistible force, as she hissed in ecstasy. He did not mind her forceful insistence, however, as he dove into the feast with abandon, lapping at the juices and exploring her cave with his powerful tongue. Shudders racked her body, as she pressed him deeper. Occasionally, he would growl, sending the reverberations of his animalistic desires pulsing deep into her body, as his burning breath coaxed chirps and growls from her as well. Her hips began to buck against his tusks, with a rising climax. She roared, as she pulled his head away with a tug on his mane, and he joined her, juices dribbling from his twitching member as well as from his dripping lips.

She leaned down to him, licking at his lips and tasting herself there. She purred and scraped her cheek scales across his tusks, as before, then turned in a serpentine manner, a hunger still in her eyes, towards his twitching, enflamed cock. Again, her tongue flicked across his stomach, lapping up his juices, then to the head and wrapping itself around his shaft. With a lusty hiss, she arched her back, twisting her head to glare at him with her still hungry eyes. Her brilliant, blue tail slammed the cushions at his shoulder and then lifted directly into the air, like a war staff, indicating that the battle was not over. She crawled over his legs, resting her head, shoulders, and chest among the bedding. She lifted her backside and her tail still higher, while on her knees, and her clawed toes beckoned him to enter her waiting sex. “Come, chieftain,” she cooed. “Come and fill me. Claim me as a mate, and breed me. This is what I ask of you, mighty chieftain.” He did not know if this was even possible, but he would not shrink from the challenge, not when there was such a willing partner to be bred.

He rose to his feet, wiping the sweetness from his lips with his mighty forearm. He growled and gnashed his tusks, and she purred at the sound. She was an animal in heat, and the same lust filled him. He gripped the crest of her hips in his eager hands, digging his nails into her leathery flesh and scraping along her scales. She bucked back towards him, eager to be filled, as he prodded her flush opening with his blazing rod. He did not need much coaxing from her, however, as he drove his rod within her, with a mighty roar. She chirped with bliss, as he continued to slam into her, letting her feel every inch and ripple of his pulsing member. He did not loosen his grasp, either, and even bit down on her tail in the heat of the moment, to keep her from unintentionally withdrawing from him during the furious bucking and thrusting of their hips. This only seemed to enflame her arousal, and she pressed deeper upon him, almost causing him to lose his balance and fall back. He held fast, however, matching her force with his own.

As their breeding reached a climax, he wrapped his hands around the base of her tail and drew her in as he thrust once more, burying his cock to the hilt in her aching slit and releasing all of his seed within. They roared in climax, shudders and spasms pulsing through them, in unison. Her tail wrapped around his back and held him close, so as not to lose a drop of his potent seed. She was indeed seeking to be bred, and she would not be denied a chieftain’s mark within her waiting cavern. They remained locked like this for what seemed like an hour, until his cock stopped twitching and his flesh again became soft. She then relaxed her tail, and he slid out of her, gingerly, shuddering as the sensation sent electricity through him. He reclined back upon the cushions, and she slinked over to him. Coming to rest beside his body, she pressed against his drenched flesh, savoring the heat and moisture. She almost framed him, from head to toe, with her immense form, and her neck snaked over his head, as hers rested on the opposite side. Her tongue flicked out to greedily lap at the beads of sweat upon his skin.

Neither spoke for a time, preferring instead to pant and purr in the afterglow. Her arms snaked over his torso and held him close. Zorubaash raised his hand to caress her cheek, as he nuzzled the other side. He then asked, “Why has your hunger grown so great? You seemed almost starving.” She did not open her eyes, as she spoke, “Too long has my nest been empty and my eggs withheld from my sight.” He snorted, “Surely, you have had your pick of the mightiest warriors among your people. Why would they refuse you?” She growled, with a wearied menace, “I refused them! None were worthy of my favor. None were promised me by the Sky Serpent.” He blinked in amazement, and asked, “What did the Spirit promise?” She lazily nudged his cheek, and clicked, “You, fool chieftain. He promised one who was beyond even this world, one who would change the world, one who wandered into this world, following their path. He would carry a burning brand of his people and a mark of the lost and forgotten.” At these words, Laylem’s mark again began to pulse upon his chest, and he swore he could feel it shift, as if alive. She continued, “He would wander across this world, in search of a power beyond the heavens, and bear the bones of dragons. In him would burn a fire like volcanoes and his flesh would be as their ashen peaks, upon which the marks of his deeds and the prophecies of spirits would be etched.” She opened her eye and looked at him, coyly, “He would breed me. For him, I would give my flesh and my first clutch.” She nuzzled his cheek, tenderly, saying, “And every clutch, thereafter, until the Spirits called him home.” He breathed deeply, soaking in her words, and she looked at him, curiously, then asked, “Tell me, Zzzohrubbaasssh Forgeborn, chieftain of a lost people and one who walks with spirits, did the Great Sky Serpent speak truthfully? Have I heeded his promise and followed the signs?” He smiled warmly, almost at a loss for words, and rested his head against hers, replying, “He has, and you have…for the most part.” At these last words, she pulled her head away and looked at him, squarely, asking, “For what most part?” He grinned, wolfishly, stating, “You haven’t given me your first clutch, yet.” He thought for a moment and then continued, “I’m not even sure I can sire your offspring.” She clicked again, smiling, and he realized that this must be laughter.

He saw her in a new light, at that moment. He had been looking at her as some foreign creature. A mutual predator to be respected, but not as an actual mate. Her body and ways were exotic, but she was not just some creature. She was indeed a person, an equal, in both form and essence. A tenderness gripped him, and he cupped his hand under her chin, drawing her lips close to his and placing a kiss upon them. She blinked at the suddenness of the silent gesture but then surrendered to his tenderness. After their lips parted, she asked, “What was that for?” He smiled with embarrassment, and said, “Forgive me, Yisk. For a moment, I doubted the Spirits and my own eyes.” She cocked her head in confusion, but moved closer, scraping her cheek across his tusks, asking, “And now?” He continued the gesture, rising upon his elbow, as he looked at her with renewed hunger, saying, “And now I would like to make a larger clutch, with you, one to rival all the chieftains of the lizardfolk.” She began to purr and rolled upon her back, welcoming him, as he mounted her and began to work another brood into her eager belly.

...

A bell rang early, the following morning, rousing Zorubaash from his slumber. He rolled in the bedding, feeling a weight upon his chest. One of Yisk’s arms was laying upon him, while she slept beside him, warmed by his body heat. As he shifted, he could feel her immense tail slide over him, seeking more of his warmth. The bell rang again, and he nudged her head with his own, asking, “What is that?” She opened one eye and said, “Customers are early. They can wait a little longer.” She began to purr, and pulled him closer, wrapping a leg over him, as well. She wasn’t about to relinquish a warm companion after such a long night of mating. He also wondered if she was still basking in a bit of the remaining afterglow from their copulation. He didn’t mind nor did he resist. He made himself comfortable, drawing up more of the bedding and settling into Yisk’s affectionate, languid embrace.

Eventually, they roused themselves from their lazy slumber, with a bit of hunger still in their eyes. Neither cared if others heard their passion, at this point, but they couldn’t remain much longer. Duty called them both. After a brief embrace, which Zorubaash was sure had left a few marks upon his skin and a near permanent smile on his companion's reptilian face, they rose and prepared for the day. While Zorubaash was putting on his gear and fastening the buckles, he felt Yisk slide up beside him. She placed a silver band in his hands. “What is this?” he asked, nudging her head beside his. “This is a mating band of my people,” she cooed. “I am sorry, Zzzohrubbaasssh. I lied. I said I would ask nothing else, but I ask, now, that you take this and be mated to me.” His name was difficult for her to speak. It was still new and was made to be spoken by orcs, not lizardfolk. He chuckled and continued to nudge, saying, “‘Zor’ is acceptable, for a mate, yes?” She chirped and snaked her head over his shoulder and around his chest, still purring. The rumbling filled his chest, and the mark pulsed. She showed him how to wear the bangle around his forearm, holding up her own, as an example. He complied, with a warm smile, and she chirped her happiness, in reply.

Epilogue:

It was time for them to go. The Terrawave chieftain had made it clear that they were to leave town and soon. Some of their party were never to return, on penalty of death. Zorubaash stopped by the tavern, on his way out of town. Yisk greeted him at the bar, sniffing his hair and rubbing her cheek across his tusks in supplication to her mate. Some of the customers took note and jeered at the odd couple or taunted them. Zorubaash bristled, turning to show off his bangle, with a menacing growl in his throat. He noticed that Yisk did not growl, however. She almost seemed to smirk at their hollow and impotent taunts. She had no need for their approval. She had him and her promise. She nudged him with her head, playfully, and said, “Do not pick fights in my tavern.” He grunted, “I did not pick the fight.” She then cooed, “Perhaps, but you would surely finish it, and I don’t need fresh blood on my floor.” He nodded in understanding, still glaring at the cat-callers. "Save that fire for our bed," she purred. Her words struck his heart. They were words Mazoga and Hagurth would use. He didn't blame Yisk, however. How could she know where he was from or the life he had lived and those he had loved, before arriving in this world? Maybe he would tell her, one day, but that wasn't today. He turned back to her, cupping her chin, and said, “My companions are leaving. I don’t know how long I will be gone.” She replied, “It matters not. You wear the band and we share a bond.” She then leaned in close, beside his head, and opposite from anyone else in the tavern, cooing softly, “If you do not return, however, I will hunt you and claim another clutch from your loins to be nested beside the first.” He grinned, broadly, and replied, “Now I’m torn. Return soon to see your eggs or stay away and enjoy the sport of being hunted? Is hard to choose.” She growled, playfully, in his ear, “Either way, I will make it worth your while.” She pulled away her head, from his ear, and scraped her cheeks, again, saying, “Good hunting, Zor.” He placed a kiss upon her nose and replied, “Good fishing, Yisk.” With that, he left, and her tail flicked, as she watched him go.


End file.
